


Watching

by helens78



Category: Equilibrium (2002) RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF, Velvet Goldmine RPF
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-27
Updated: 2003-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 23,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viggo and Christian have been in a dom/sub relationship for a while now; when Christian notices Jon and falls for him, Viggo reluctantly lets him go.  On the other hand, there's this guy named Sean...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Someday

**Author's Note:**

> This was a series written in 15-minute segments, for the most part (which is why some of the chapter breaks are in odd places). It is _not not not not not_ meant to be a realistic depiction of healthy BDSM relationships (and is a wee bit embarrassing to me to look back on now, because the border isn't quite as clear as I feel it ought to be). For completeness' sake, I offer it anyway, and then go hide. (It was seven years ago...)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon watches Christian with an older man, and thinks maybe his turn'll come someday.

I could become addicted to those lips if given the opportunity. I won't be, but I'm watching him, and wondering what it would take to see him closing his eyes and parting his lips, waiting for me to kiss him. Jesus, he's beautiful, and I think he wants me. I think I can tell what the look in those eyes means.

He keeps looking up at me from under his lashes, and then there's this expression I can't read. I don't know what he's saying with it. What he wants. What he's asking for. I know whatever it is, I want to deliver on it.

Those _lips_. Jesus.

We're heading out tonight, going drinking after we finish work for the day. And I'll probably make my move then. Or at least I'll let him know I'm open to it if he makes a move on _me_. Wonder where that'd get me. Anywhere?

But he--

\--oh.

Oh, he's not alone.

That's interesting. The man he's here with looks as if he could be twice his age, and the way his hands wrap around Christian's shoulders, it's pretty obvious this is not just a friendly relationship. Not just a fatherly relationship. It's--

\--well. I think I know what those expressions meant now.

Another night, another fine acquaintance with my right hand. Damn.

Damn, because I was beginning to think I knew how those lips tasted. I could see them parting for mine, could see the way he'd kiss me back. I could feel the way those hands would twist and clutch in my shirt.

Someday.

Maybe.


	2. It's Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian's noticed the way Jon looks at him; he just doesn't think he's allowed to have what Jon wants to offer him.

I hate the way he watches me. It's as if he doesn't care if I notice.

I'm not offended. I'm not bothered. The problem is... I want him, too, and I can't have him.

I can't even look the way I'd like. Can't want, can't look, certainly can't touch. I can't do a blasted _thing_ with him.

And he's so young, and so pretty, and the way he moves makes me think of how he'd look crawling across the floor, how he'd look with those lips around a gag, one of the ones I've worn, maybe. How he'd look with tears in his eyes, hands cuffed behind his back, how he'd whimper if I were stroking him off and I'd told him not to come.

...damn. I'm not supposed to think of these things. I'm not supposed to want them.

Master's coming to see me; we've been apart too long, and I miss him desperately. I _want_ to see him.

And maybe it's more than that. Maybe it's an easy out. Jon will understand then, I think. He'll understand why I can't look at him the way I want to, why I can't let him deliver on those promises he's making with his body and his eyes.

...I want...

 _God,_ I want.

It's not that easy, though, and it might never be, and it's all right. It's fine.

I can't even say someday.

I can't even say _maybe_.

But it's fine.


	3. What You Wish For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian can't get over how much Jon distracts him, so he asks Viggo for permission to get it out of his system.

There he goes _again_. Christ, I'm starting to wonder if anything's going to get him distracted, get his attention off me. Maybe not. If seeing me with my master didn't do it, I don't know what will.

I hate this. I hate that he can make me feel uncomfortable just by looking at me, even if the look doesn't really mean anything. Not on its own.

And it's frustrating knowing I have to stare at him starry-eyed. He's supposed to be my fantasy, the thing that inspires me to take the first steps into being whole, being _myself_ , and then later he has to be my disappointment, the man whose betrayal sends me back into the closet, back into hiding. He's supposed to run the gamut for me, and I don't want to have to look at him that way.

Damn. Damn and _damn_.

I can't tell what that look means. He's concentrating so hard, and then... what _is_ that? Oh, Christ, that's a _smile_ , and his eyes are so warm and I can feel my skin getting tight and...

...damn. Damn and damn.

It doesn't help that I've seen him crawl across the floor. _Crawl,_ with his arse in the air and his hands splayed out and his lip pouting and Jesus, if I keep thinking about this I'm going to have to find somewhere quiet with a telephone so I can call and outright beg for permission to touch myself. And I probably won't get it, though at least the begging will feel good. It'll make sense. So little of this makes sense at all; at least that would be something.

If it were something easy -- if he were joking with me the way both of us joke with Ewan -- if we were just friends, just mates, if we could just go out for a beer and then maybe go home and think about shagging each other senseless...

And I have to wonder why it couldn't be that way. Could I get rid of this tight little ball in my chest by begging for permission to go after him, just once, just so we know what it's like?

Just once. So I can lose this uncomfortable ache that's been following me around.

* * *

I pick up the phone. I'm standing, my hip pressed into the desk, and at least I'm alone in my room. No untimely knocks on the door, no one wanting my attention. I sigh as the phone rings, and eventually he picks up.

"Yeah?"

"Master, it's Christian."

"Hello, boy." His voice is uncommonly warm, and I cringe at that, too. It would be easier if he weren't being so _nice_. How am I supposed to ask for permission to fuck someone else when he's being so nice? "What's the matter?"

I sigh; there's no point in asking how he knows something's the matter. "Master, I've been... distracted," I admit. "I'd like to work that distraction out of my system."

"Ahh." He goes silent for a long time; maybe half a minute. "The pretty boy you were watching when I came to visit you?"

"Yes, Master."

"...Jonathan, was it?"

"Yes, Master."

"And you'd like to fuck him."

I close my eyes and press fingertips into my eyelids. "Yes, Master."

"How badly do you want this, boy?"

I lower myself to my knees, put my head on the floor. The newly muffled sound of my voice will tip him off right away to what I've done; I don't need to tell him. "Please, Master, I can't think. Can't concentrate. I'm getting distracted every time I look at him."

"I don't like this." His answer is immediate and sharp. "If it were a matter of friendly tension, I'd let you have it without worrying. This bothers me. What is it you really want from the boy?"

I hesitate, and his voice is even sharper when that half a second ends and I try to say something, just to break the silence.

" _What_ do you expect to get out of this, if I let you?"

"I don't know," I whisper.

"What would you have him do?"

"Crawl across the floor. Suck me off. I'd fuck him."

Dead silence, again. I hate it when he goes silent like that. I hate when I can't tell what he's thinking.

" _If._ If I let you. Then what? You'll want him again."

"No, Master, I--"

"Christian." The tone is almost condescending. "You don't call and beg for permission to fuck someone and then expect that it's only going to happen once."

"Maybe this time I am," I offer; it's a rather desperate hope, but I try anyway. My chest feels tight again.

"All right, _listen_. I will give you this first time free. Every time you want to fuck him, you call me. You get on your knees and you _beg_. I don't care where you are, who's watching, what you're doing. If your breath gets tight while you're watching him, you call me and you beg me to let you fuck him. And Christian, I don't just mean when you don't think you can stand it. I mean _when you want him._ When you feel that uncomfortable little piece of heaven starting to work its way down your spine and up your cock, you get on the fucking phone. I don't care what time it is. You understand me?"

Oh, God. Oh, _Christ_.

"I..."

"You want to back out from this, boy?" he snaps.

"No, no, Master. I don't want to back out." I couldn't even if I wanted to, I think. I think he'd make it worse on me if I did.

"Good. Go and get him, boy. Any way you want. He's yours."

The phone clicks off in my ear. And I've been given an order. Jesus.


	4. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian makes his move, and while this isn't usually the way Jon wants it, this time is different.

When the hand comes down on my shoulder, I'm sure it's Ewan. Ewan and I had plans to go have a beer after shooting today, and it's a little early for him to be done, but maybe they had a good run today.

Only when I look up, it isn't Ewan at all. It's Christian, and his hand is warm on my shoulder.

My tongue is thick in my mouth. And yeah, that's a euphemism.

"Hey," I stutter out.

"Hey," he says. "Listen, I owe you an apology."

"What for?" I ask, puzzled.

He leans in close, his grip on my shoulder tightening. "For not taking you up on everything," he murmurs.

 _Oh, God._

"What's everything?" I ask, my hands sliding around his waist. I'm looking around, wondering if anyone's going to think twice about this, but no, this is Arthur snogging Brian, and we're all close here; it's all right. I wonder where we can go to get away from extra pairs of eyes. God, I want him. _Now._

"Find out," he purrs in my ear.

Where the hell did he _come_ from? What happened to the man who was pointedly ignoring the way I was watching him? What happened to the casual disinterest, the way he'd look away whenever his eyes happened to meet mine?

Oh, _like I fucking care_. "Any time," I tell him.

"Now?"

"Yeah."

He drags me into the costume trailer and locks the door behind us. The clothes come off fast, then the wigs, and he puts his hands on my hips and shoves me into the door. The wind comes out of me, and I push back against him. He just holds me there, holds me an arm's length away from him, and I realize how strong he is. More than I expected. Jesus.

He's got a rubber, where it came from I don't know, and one of those little lube envelopes, and he gets the rubber on and then slicks up and kicks my legs apart. Jesus, I'm still facing him. What's he expecting here?

He tugs one of my legs up around his hip. _Oh_. Oh, God. Yeah, we can do it like that, with my back pressed to the door and my legs around his waist. Just like that. Christ. I give a quick hop and he pins me to the door, grunting as he gets his hands under me and slides fingers into me again, here in this position, almost as if he's double-checking to find the right angle.

Which he probably is. God. Because then he gets himself lined up and shoves the first inch in, and I cry out, can't help it, and he slams me into the wall again.

"Christian, ahh--"

"Shut up," he growls. And shoves in more.

" _Christian_ \--"

"Little slut," he whispers. My eyes narrow, but then they snap closed altogether when he shoves the last bit of the way in, cock filling me so hard I can't see at all. Oh God. Oh God God God, he can call me whatever in fuck he wants. His cock feels so good in me -- I had no idea, Christ -- and now he's slamming me into the door, again, and again, making these rough growling noises and whispering to me.

 _Slut. Whore. Beg for it. You'd beg me for it, wouldn't you? I'm going to make you beg..._

Who _is_ he? What the hell is he saying?

But then I have to ask the same question about myself, because I hear my voice sobbing out _Yes, yes, please, I'd beg, I'd beg you, begging you, Christian please please please yes oh God please, please fuck me, please..._

"You want to come this way," he grunts, and my shoulders hit the wall hard, "or you want to come -- _fuck_ \-- with your face on the ground while I -- _oh, fuck_ \-- tear up your palms and knees fucking you across the floor?" He pants; he's sweating, and Christ but it looks good on him.

"Like this," I gasp, "like this like this, come on, _harder_..." I don't even know what makes me tell him harder; I don't like it this hard, I don't like it as hard as I'm getting it, but you could put a gun to my head and I wouldn't tell him to hold back now.

"Give it to you," he growls, "just like you want it, boy," and then his eyes close and he gives me one-two-three last _hard_ thrusts and I can see the look on his face change when he comes, oh Christ, comes into me and pulses inside me.

I clutch at him, tear at his shoulders, and then I'm coming, my cock so hard I don't even need to touch it, and I'm shooting into the air, Christ, making a mess all over the both of us.

He grunts again and pulls out of me once I'm done, letting me fall to the floor. I hit the floor hard and sink down, finally lying down on my back, wincing.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

"No, you're not," I tell him. "I'm not either."


	5. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Christian did might freak him out a little, but Jon can't deny it turns him on.

I walk over to the table by my bed and flick the light on. The room is mostly shadow, then, with one little bright spotlight by the bed.

It's enough for me to undress by, at least. There's that.

I undress and pad off to the bathroom, where I wash my face -- God, so much glitter, even after they took it off me -- and my hands, and I brush my teeth and take my nightly piss. I come back to bed and slide under the covers, and at first I reach out for the light, before realizing I need it on right now.

I don't know what he was doing. He was welcome to it, I mean, I wasn't protesting, I didn't -- wouldn't have protested, even if I'd known what was coming. But I didn't know he wanted it that rough, and maybe it's just me, but first times seem like they ought to be -- I don't know -- at least lying down. Well, unless you're getting something in the back room of a club, with flashing strobe lights and fog machines and smoke everywhere...

But this wasn't _that_. This was just Christian dragging me into a free trailer and then fucking me. And, God, the things he said. He called me _slut_. He wanted me to _beg_. What's the matter with him?

...what's the matter with _me_ , is more what I'm thinking. Because I liked it. Jesus. I liked it and I want him to do it again.

I keep staring at the little circle of light cast by the lamp. It seems so out of place in the room, out of place among my thoughts. There's nothing _light_ about what I'm thinking; I'm feeling sick and twisted up and my ass aches unbelievably. And all I can think is that I want to keep feeling this way. I want him to take me that way again, against the wall, on the floor like he promised, scraping up my hands and knees while he fucks me hard.

I thought it was just going to be easy. I didn't even think we'd _fuck_ on set; I think I expected a blowjob, maybe a handjob, maybe we'd get each other off and then turn around and see each other on set tomorrow.

What does this make me, that I liked it so much? Does he really think I'm a slut, that I'd just take it like that from anyone? Because I wouldn't.

Well, but that's even scarier, isn't it? Because if I wouldn't take it that way from just anyone, it means there's something about _him_. Something about _Christian_. And it makes me want things, want things with him that I probably have no right and no business wanting.

I should have just switched on the overhead lamp in this room. It's too dark in here, and it keeps my thoughts spinning out in all directions. It keeps me thinking there's something the matter with all this, and that it's going to keep happening until I tell him to stop, tell him I want out.

I'm not going to tell him to stop. If he wants to fuck me that hard, I'm going to let him. If he wants to call me a slut, I'll be a slut for him. If he wants to force me onto my knees and make me beg, I'll beg him.

I need that light on. If that light weren't on, I'd be alone in this room with all my shame, and I don't think I could bear it. I trace the circle of light with my fingertips and drum them on the table. Shame. I don't need shame right now. Is he feeling shame?

He apologized afterward. Maybe he is.

The hell with that. There's enough shame in me; he wanted me, I wanted him, I'm damned if I'm going to be ashamed of the way it came out. I flip over on my back and wrap my hand around my cock.

The way he slammed me into the door, the way I couldn't move my hips away from his hands.

The look on his face while he was rolling the rubber on.

The way he tugged my leg up around his waist.

The way he smiled, teeth bared, when I gave that one hop and wrapped my legs around him.

He looked so cruel. So invitingly cruel. And I wanted it so badly. Wanted him to be cruel, wanted him to fuck it out of me, fuck me until I was laid bare before him, giving him everything.

Oh God. Oh _God God God_.

My hand works harder, and my breath is shallow in my chest. I arch my back. My hips work and I groan as my hand gets warm and then so hot it feels like I should be searing the skin from my cock, and then my eyes close so tight the lights explode behind them and I come, hand still moving fast, faster and faster until the come's sticky across my fingers and it hurts, burns, makes me bite my lip and still I won't let up. I'm making soft noises now, crying out over my muffled, bitten lip, and tears are stinging my eyes. It hurts, hurts so much. Don't stop. Don't stop. Oh _God_...

I have to stop, finally, and when I blink my eyes open I notice tears have gathered and spilled over across my cheeks. I wonder what he'd do if he were watching, wonder what he'd do if he could see my tears. If he saw me cry for him.

I leave the light on and try to go to sleep.

 _Christian_.

God.


	6. Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon keeps pushing for more, and Christian needs to make a phone call.

I'm going to have to call Master by the end of the day. Damn it. I thought I was going to buy myself some time -- a week, I was hoping, or at least half a week. Two days. Instead, it's been a matter of _hours_ and I want him again.

He's moving just the same as he always does; I don't think I hurt him too badly. That's good. It means I can fuck him again, that hard, and--

\-- _stop it_. Other things come first, don't they? Talking to Master. Talking, for Christ's sake, to _Jon_. Maybe he doesn't want you anymore; maybe now that you've had him, he'll lose interest.

But those eyes -- those eyes don't look like they've lost interest, now do they? He's watching me closer than ever.

"Christian?" He swings by, hands dug into his pockets. "Want to get lunch?"

"Sure," I tell him. Lunch isn't off-limits. Wanting him over lunch isn't off-limits -- although it's stretching matters; Viggo will be furious if he finds out I could have called, could have begged, and didn't.

Maybe if it's an all-out cast lunch... I look around, try to spot anyone else who might be free. Ewan, maybe.

"Ewan? You free for lunch?"

Only Jon turns a look on him that says _You're not, got it?_ And so Ewan shakes his head politely, and says, "Nah, some other time."

That is _unacceptable_. I keep myself from glaring at Jon, but only barely, and only by concentrating on what I'm going to do with him the next time I get him alone.

"Fine," I mutter. Jon gives me an odd look and then tilts his head and leads me off the set.

We wind up in a sandwich shop, and though I'm not terribly hungry, I order something -- I don't even notice what, because I'm more interested in watching him eat than I am in eating my own lunch. I want to see his eyes catch mine and then flick away, as if he can't decide whether he wants to meet my gaze or not. Oh, yes, this is definitely entertaining.

"So, about yesterday," he mumbles, at the end of his meal. I take a sip of my tea and then sit back to watch him, giving him my full attention. "I didn't know it would be... quite that way," he finishes.

"Did you like it?" I ask quietly.

"I..." The color comes up around his neck, and I smile at him. "Yeah," he says. "But it was -- _more_ ," he gets out.

"More than you wanted?"

He pauses, then shrugs and nods.

 _Liar._

I shake my head and walk off to the loo, and of course he's following me, a shadow to every one of my steps. He comes in after me and looks around while I wash my hands off, carefully rinsing the soap clean before taking a hand towel and rubbing my hands dry. Jon is simply staring at me, now that he's sure we're alone and have a bit of privacy; he doesn't move to the urinals or the stalls or the sinks, and doesn't move toward me, either.

Fine.

I take a step toward him, and, meeting his eyes all the way, grab him by the throat and shove him into the wall. His eyes go wide, and he grabs at my wrist with both hands, but I'm unmoved; I press his neck back to the wall and simply lean on him.

"Understand: I am not here to baby you. I am not here to coddle you. You made me an offer; I took you up on it. If you want someone who's willing to be nice to you and hold your hand, go after Ewan. Or Toni. Stop looking at me as though you want to hang on my every move or sleep at my feet."

His eyes are wide. I need to call Viggo _now_.

I back off him, but only a little. Enough so he can breathe and speak.

"Please," he croaks, and _fuck_ that sounds good on his lips. _Fuck._

"Please _what_?" I growl.

"I... Christian... all right," he whispers. He glances down my body, tries to glance down at his own, and finally gives me a miserable look that says _I'm hard and I don't know why, but yes, please, more_.

I know that look because I know exactly how it feels to make it.

My hands are shaking when I pull my fingers away from his throat. I turn on my heel, and his hand on my shoulder only stops me for a moment. "Jonathan," I murmur, in a low, warning tone.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to make a phone call." My voice is probably gruffer than it should be.

I should not have backed him into the wall like that. Christ, I'm _aching_.

"Can I see you tonight?"

"I don't know yet," I whisper. "Go home after we're done. Stay there until I call you."

"A... All right."

I walk out of the bathroom. I'm going to be late back on set. I have to find a phone.


	7. Possibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo gives Christian permission to top Jon any way he'd like.

I find a pay phone and dial up Viggo's number with shaking fingers. I can't see the numbers very well; thank Christ I don't need to. It's almost a physical memory at this point, calling Master, and when the phone rings he picks up immediately.

"Master. It's Christian."

There's a long frame of silence on the other end of the line, which is not unusual for him, but it has me sweating, pressing my palm to the inside glass of the booth and wishing he'd say something.

 _Say something, Master. Please._

"Not even twenty-four hours and you're calling to beg. Am I right?"

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod, but he can't hear that, so I have to get the words out into the air. "Yes, Master, I'm calling to beg."

"Are you kneeling?"

"No, Master--"

" _Boy_ ," Viggo snaps. I drop to my knees, awkwardly in the booth, with the phone still clutched at my ear -- it barely reaches. He hears the shift of movement, and I can hear the sound of his breath through the wires.

"I'm kneeling now, Master," I murmur. "I'm sorry, Master."

"Better," he says. "Where are you?"

"A public phone booth just outside the set, outside a sandwich shop where I had lunch."

"With this boy of yours."

"Yes, Master."

"Tell me about lunch."

"I... he... nothing happened, Master, but he followed me into the loo and I... put him up against the wall, and told him not to come after me the way he'd been doing."

"Did you." He doesn't believe me. "Give me more than that, boy."

"I..." I can barely get the words out. "I pushed him into the wall with my hand around his throat," I tell him, "and then I knew I had to call you."

Another lengthy pause. Oh, God, I'm going to be late on set. "You want him."

"Yes, Master."

"You want him the way I want you. Kneeling. Hurting. Submissive."

My voice, my breath, fades out entirely. I have been trying to avoid thinking about how much I want that. I close my eyes; he'll expect an answer. "Yes, Master," I murmur.

"Could you have him that way? Would he give you that much?"

"I don't know, Master." I think about the way he nodded at me, the way he's agreed to everything I've asked so far. Of course, I haven't asked for much, but all the same... "I think so, yes, Master."

 _Damn_ these silences. Damn him for pausing so much. _Christ, Viggo, just tell me I can have him and let me go back to the set._

"What are you going to do if you get him? Tonight. What will you do if I let you have him tonight?"

"I have him waiting by the phone," I whisper. "I'd call him and make him pull off for me, begging me to let him come before I give in and tell him he can."

"Mm." Another one of those damnable pauses. "All right. That much you can have. You can have the rest of the day, and if you haven't called me by tomorrow evening, you'll regret it. Because we both know that wanting him isn't going to stop, don't we?"

"No, Master, it's unlikely to stop."

"You call me once a day and beg. And you take that boy wherever you want to go. But Christian, when this is over, when you and he have your next break, you are coming back to me."

"I never doubted that, Master."

He laughs, just a little. "You will come to. You'll wonder if you can ever kneel for me again after you've had this boy under your thumb for a few weeks. And it's going to kill you coming back here and kneeling. Do you understand that yet?"

My eyes are shut so tight I can see the flashes of blood behind my eyelids. "Yes, Master," I whisper.

"All right. He's yours, boy. Go."

"Thank you, Master." I hang up the phone and come to my feet, resting against the glass of the booth.

He's mine. Jon is mine. I have to call Viggo and beg every day, but apart from that... Jon's mine.

I can hurt him. Break him. Tease him. I can see what tears look like in those eyes; I can find out what he looks like cuffed and bruised and begging. I can push him against the wall. I can push him into the dark corners of the room when we have five free minutes and jerk him off while he bites down on his lip and begs me to stop. I can...

I'm late. Christ.


	8. Where I Want You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian calls Jon and lets Jon know what he's going to be in for. Jon goes along for the ride.

I can't believe I'm sitting next to the phone. Waiting for it to ring. Waiting for Christian to call me. This is insane.

It's insane like being fucked into the door on a moment's notice, or being backed into the wall in a public loo, or having his fingers dig into my throat and getting hard from it. All right, so it's insane and I don't give a damn.

When the phone finally rings, I nearly jump out of my skin. I grab for it and tuck it between ear and shoulder, sitting down on the edge of my couch. "Hello?"

"Jonathan." The purr in that voice makes my cock hard almost immediately, which is probably exactly what he intended.

I let out a breath. "Christian," I say. And then, although it seems half-ridiculous, "How are you?"

"Take your clothes off."

I blink and actually pull the phone away from my ear for a moment. "What?" I ask.

"Take. Your clothes off. Or hang up the phone. Up to you."

"Oh -- all right--" I put the phone down for a moment and get out of my clothes, wishing it were a little warmer in here. My skin breaks out into gooseflesh almost immediately, but it doesn't help with my erection; I'm still hard, more than ever, really. "All right," I tell him. "I'm out of my clothes."

"Good. Kneel."

"What?"

He sighs. "Say what one more time and I'm hanging up the phone, Jonathan."

I haven't had someone call me _Jonathan_ like that in years. Jesus.

"All right," I stammer, and I slide off the edge of the couch so I can go to my knees. It's bizarre sitting here on the floor, on my knees, with no reason other for it other than that he asked for it. I shiver again.

"Are you kneeling?"

"Yeah."

"Are you hard?"

I breathe out. "Yeah."

"Good. Put your hand on your cock for me. Don't stroke yourself yet. Just touch yourself."

Oh, God. Phone sex? "Are you touching yourself?" I ask.

"We're not talking about me, Jonathan. Is your hand on your cock?" His voice is a little sharper there at the end.

I get my hand on my cock and swallow. "Yes," I tell him.

"Good. Do you want to know what I'm going to do to you the next time we see each other? Start stroking now, gently. You don't get to come until I tell you."

"I -- yes, I mean, tell me what you're going to do to me." I start stroking myself, keeping my grip light. I don't get to come until he tells me? What is he _talking_ about?

" _Ask_ for it."

"Ask for..." I cut myself off before I can say the word _what_. " _Please_ tell me what you're going to do to me." My breath picks up, and the pace of my hand on my cock does, too, without my even thinking about it. I want to know what he's been thinking of doing to me. I want to know what's going to happen to me. Oh, God.

"Ask me nicely. Respectfully, Jonathan."

"Um... please, Christian, would you tell me what you're going to do to me?"

There's a silence on the other end of the line that's so long I wonder if he's hung up, but then he lets out this soft pleased noise -- I think he might have just taken his cock out of his pants -- and says, "Yes. I'll tell you. Stroke harder."

I follow his direction, and I have to let my eyes close; it feels too good, and if his voice sounds like liquid gold on the other end of the line through it, I might have to stop if I don't want to come.

"It's going to happen after we're done for the day. You're going to be in jeans and one of those godawful shirts that looks like something you got from a thrift shop run by aging disco queens. And you're going to come to my place, where I'm going to put you on your knees and rip the fucking thing off your body."

I gasp; my grip tightens a little, and I slow down.

"It's going to hurt. You're going to hear fabric tearing and you'll feel the tug of it around your neck, around your arms, before I finally get the fucking thing off you. And you're going to have your lips parted for me, but you're not going to say a fucking word. You're not even going to beg me for it. You got that?"

"Uhnn... yes, Christian, please..."

"Please _what_?" he snaps out.

"Please, keep going, oh God, Christian, I'm getting close..."

"Good," he purrs. "So after I get your shirt ripped to fucking shreds, I'm going to shove you forward so your face ends up on the floor, and I'm going to tug at your jeans, ripping and tugging until I get them over your hips and your arse is raised up so I can sink my teeth into it. I'm going to bite you until you bruise. When was the last time someone bit you that way?"

"I don't like biting--"

"You are going to learn to like _everything_ I give you," he snarls at me, and oh _fuck_ I'm going to come all over my hand and when he finally _does_ bite me, I'm going to cry out and beg him to fuck me. I know this already. I can see it coming.

"Sorry," I whisper. "Sorry..."

"And _if_ you look good enough, _if_ I like the way you look on my floor, then I'll put my hands on your hips and I'll fuck you. Into. The. Goddamned. Floor." Every single word is punctuated with a snap of teeth, and I let out a groan -- I need this, need him talking me through it this way, and oh _God_ I want to come.

"Christian, please, I can't... I need to... please..."

"Come, Jonathan. _Now._ "

I do, moaning into the phone, gasping as my cock pulses in my hand and spills over, my hand getting sticky with come. I whimper as I keep touching myself, not wanting to stop until he tells me.

"Stop now," he purrs. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jonathan."

And he clicks off.

Jesus.


	9. Whisper-Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian's learning that Jon has an awful lot of potential.

The sound of his voice when I was telling him what I was going to do to him -- the little noises, the breaths he was taking -- Christ. I nearly went mad trying to keep from touching myself last night. I suspect it would be one thing to do it with him, even just on the phone with him, but alone, thinking of him... Viggo would take the skin off my back for that, and I'd deserve it.

I finally get to sleep, and end up dreaming of Jon, and Viggo, of Viggo hurting Jon, and even in my dreams it makes me envious. I don't want anyone else hurting Jon. I don't want anyone else touching him.

When I land on set and see the way he's talking to Ewan, I could kill both of them.

I walk over, and Ewan nods at me, still smiling. His smile's no different for me than the one he gives Jon, so that's something, at least. I won't have to kill Ewan.

Jon's smile disappears entirely when he sees me. He looks down at the ground between my feet, and says, "Hello."

Ewan notices, of course. Ewan's not an idiot, and Jon is wearing a neon sign over his head that says _Something's going on. Something's the matter._

I put a hand on Ewan's waist and lean in close to him, which gets Jon's attention immediately. I drop my voice past the point where Jon could overhear, and whisper something to Ewan that makes him choke and laugh, and then turn his attention to Jon, one eyebrow raised. Ewan claps me on the back and heads off without another word, and Jon stands there transfixed.

"What did you _say_ to him?" Jon asks.

I shake my head, only smiling a little. I don't say anything else. But I keep my eyes on him, and I wait for him to keep talking.

"I, ah... have scenes to film," he says lamely. Of course he does. We all do. He could do better than that if he were thinking clearly. I'm rather pleased he's not.

Another pause. I'm beginning to see why Viggo lets these pauses happen; I know Jon is squirming now the way I've done on the phone with Viggo, or just kneeling in front of him, waiting, wondering what he's going to come up with next, if all my answers are going to end up being wrong.

"About last night..." Jon begins. I quirk up my eyebrows, still waiting. "I..." He scratches the back of his neck with one hand while he thrusts the other into his front pocket. "Is that really what you're going to do to me?" he asks, very quietly.

When I don't answer right away, he finally looks up at me. Looks at my eyes.

"Yes," I tell him. "Eventually."

The most beautiful look of confusion crosses his face, and I smile at that. Slowly. I take him by the arm and back him around a corner, behind the back of a trailer, and push him into the metal of the wall.

He shivers; the metal is cold, and his shirt is thin, of course. He _is_ wearing one of those wretched things he likes so much; he's not in costume yet. And I _do_ want to rip it off him, but not here. Not like this. I unbutton three of the buttons down the front of his shirt and slip my fingers inside, brushing them over his skin. His eyes close immediately.

He has such _potential_. It couldn't be clearer if it were emblazoned on his forehead. _Bend me, break me, hurt me, make me beg._ I don't think I saw it at first, but now I wonder if I knew, all along -- if he knew, and that's why he watched me the way he did.

I frown, just a bit. Viggo was right. It's going to be damn hard going back after this.

I scratch lightly down the center of his chest, and he jerks back against the trailer, gasping. His eyes don't open; he squeezes them shut a little tighter, in fact, and lets his lips part for me.

 _There._ That's good. That's what I want.

I lean in and put my lips close to his. Not close enough to taste him, but close enough that I can _imagine_ the taste of him, imagine the feel of those lips against mine. I can feel his breath against my mouth, and I know he can feel the same from me. We're not kissing. Not touching. Just sharing breath, and my fingertips are still exploring the planes of his chest.

"What do you want?" I whisper.

He doesn't get out words. Another noise, a soft groan and a whispered nonsense syllable that sounds very much like a plea.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" I ask him.

He nods, brushing his lips against mine in the process. I pull my hand free of his shirt, dragging my palm against his chest until it rests just below his collarbone, and I pin his back against the trailer. My other hand is lower, and I put my first two fingers on the inside of his wrist and ghost them up over his forearm, finally curving my hand around his bicep and over his shoulder, and rub my thumb along his jaw from chin to earlobe.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" I ask again.

"Please," he whimpers; he flicks his tongue out across his lips, and I feel the lightest touch imaginable against my own.

It sends me over, and I crush my mouth to his, no more foreplay, no more gentle teasing. His arms come up and clutch at my shirt, fisting and tugging, not hard enough to tear, but close. I can feel one of his legs coming up to wrap around my hip.

I pull away. "Tonight I'm going to teach you how to beg," I promise. And I walk off, leaving him shaken and unsettled and trying to remember how to stand on his own.


	10. Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally embraces everything.

It's going to kill me. Waiting for him, trying to figure out what tonight's going to be like, it's going to _fucking_ kill me. I'm so nervous I can't stand. I've had a hard-on all day long. Ever since he unbuttoned my shirt and touched skin. And it won't go down. Christ.

I caught this incredibly self-satisfied look from him as I was going in to get my costume on, and damn him, that just made me look away and mumble something when I walked into the trailer, so I could turn away before getting into the clothes.

I thought about slipping off for a quick wank between scenes, but then I saw him watching me. And his eyebrows came together, furrowing slightly, and I sighed and tilted my head back, arms swinging at my sides. I thought about pouting, but I have the oddest idea that won't go over.

The expectation's always better than the real thing. This is my one consolation. No matter what he does, it's not going to be as good as what I'm thinking about. Hoping for. Fucking fantasizing about. Bastard.

I don't know why these fantasies are coming to me now. I don't like it when I'm with men who are too rough, the ones who don't ease up right away when you tell them _that HURTS_. I don't like being mauled, pawed at, scratched at, bitten in the heat of the moment. I don't like any of that. I like energy, yeah. I like it frantic, and I like it when they're fast and they don't sit there trying like mad to get me off before they get off themselves.

But that doesn't mean I want what he keeps promising. Does it?

I let out a breath and brush my forehead off with the back of my hand, which of course makes one of the makeup girls come running over to me. And I think about maybe seeing if one of them would suck me off on my next break, because I don't think Christian would expect that. I'm halfway to asking before I realize that if I do -- if I ask and she says yes -- then I've got something else to anticipate, and that's how he'll punish me. Because I expect he would.

I expect I'd let him. I expect I'd believe I deserved it.

I'm going to fucking keel over from the lack of blood; it's all been concentrated in my lap for so long I can hardly remember what it feels like to have proper oxygen going to my brain. Damn it. I just wanted him to fuck me. I didn't need him in my head like this.

Shooting ends, mercifully, and I get myself out of my costume and my makeup as fast as humanly possible. Even so, by the time I get out of the trailer, he's waiting for me.

He tilts his head. Doesn't say a word. Just tilts his head and shuffles me off to a cab that he's got waiting, opening the door for me and then getting in himself.

He gives the driver the address to his flat and settles his hand on my knee. I jump, and I swear my eyes cross. I put my head back on the seat.

"Sit up straight," he tells me. I jerk up to attention -- all of me jerks up to attention -- and his hand squeezes my knee hard, then his grip turns into this light teasing caress that goes halfway up my thigh.

I bite down hard on my lower lip. "Christian," I whisper.

"Shut up."

I bite down harder.

We get to his flat and he pays the driver, and I don't see what kind of tip he leaves, but it makes the driver happy. He doesn't look back to see that I'm following; he simply assumes I have. Well, Christ, where else would I go right now? I'm hard and it's bloody difficult to walk this way. And he must know it.

He gestures me inside, a little impatiently, I think. And once I'm in, he slams the door shut behind us and grabs me by the collar. He propels me through a doorway into the living room, where he shoves me over the back of the couch, and holds me down while I struggle -- I can't help struggling at first.

When the struggle goes out of me, he leans over me -- pressing the whole length of his body against me -- and puts his lips to my earlobe. "Want it?" he whispers.

"I--"

He gives me this lewd lick along the curve of my ear, and I don't even try to make it a demure noise when I moan. "Christian," I say, and I'm begging, the way he predicted I would. " _Christian_. Please."

"Want it badly, boy?"

" _Please,_ " I repeat, halfway to misery.

"What do you want me to do to you, boy?"

"Fuck me," I beg.

He thrusts his hips against my arse and I moan again, louder this time. "Do you know how to ask me with respect, boy?" he asks.

There's three times today he's called me boy, and it's not the first time he's done it, I think. Fucking odd.

"Please, Christian, would you please fuck me?"

" _Sir,_ " he corrects, breathing the word into my ear on a growl, licking around the curve of my ear again.

Now that's just -- I actually try to turn to look at him. He growls at me again, and his fist goes from the collar of my shirt to the hair at the nape of my neck and clutches tight. I cry out, and let him turn my head back where he wants it.

" _Please, Sir, would you please fuck me_ ," he hisses.

"Are you mad...?"

"Do you want it or not, boy?"

I struggle against his hand in my hair, his body on top of mine, for several seconds. "Of course I want it," I hiss at him. "You're fucking insane is all."

"You're fucking insane, _Sir_ ," he says, but I can tell he's laughing at me.

"I don't want it like this," I whisper.

"Yes, you do." He gives a slow thrust against my hips. "You know you do."

Oh, God.

God.

"Please," I beg. "Would you please fuck me, _Sir_."

"There's a good boy."

I can hear him unzipping his pants. I arch back and moan again.

"Yes, Jon, I'm going to fuck you." He tightens his grip in my hair. "But there are rules."

And he and I both know I've already agreed to them.


	11. On The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's not sure whether this is too far or not.

His hands are on my hips holding me steady. His lips are at the back of my neck, and I can feel the hot air of his breath. I press my arse back against him and moan.

"Christian..."

He gives a nice little broad lick against the base of my neck. " _Sir_ ," he corrects.

I shiver. I've never done anything like this before. I've read about it, but actually _doing_ it is something else, and calling him _Sir_ means something. It's going to mean something to him. It's going to be a promise. And while I think it was only a matter of time before I started making promises, actually _doing_ it is something else entirely. God.

It doesn't come out very well at first. "S... sir," I choke out.

He reaches a hand around my waist, slides it between my legs. His fingers splay out across my cock, and I groan and tilt my head back.

"Please," I moan.

"Do you want me to touch you?" he purrs. Who knew Christian could _purr_ that way?

"Yes," I whisper, "yes, _please_ touch me."

He doesn't move; I haven't said enough. I whimper.

"Please touch me, _Sir_."

"There's a good boy." His hand comes up, and he unbuttons and unzips my pants, then slides my hand inside, the heat of his hand coming through my shorts and making me shake. I press myself up on my forearms on the back of the couch and grind my arse back against him.

He nips at the back of my neck. "Watch it," he tells me. "You're pushing, boy."

"Please, Christian, please, _Sir_ , oh God, oh God, touch me..."

"I am touching you," he murmurs against the back of my neck. "You could come just from this, couldn't you? Just from this?"

I moan and have to nod in order to give him an answer. Yes. I could come just from the touch of his hand on my cock like that, the heat of it through thin fabric. It feels so good.

Things have never felt this way for me before. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know why I'm doing this, why I want it so much. _Christian._ I'm dizzy. Oh, God.

"Come on, then," he says. He gives me another sharp nip, and I cry out and try to twist my head away, try to drop it between my shoulderblades so he can't get to it. He brings his hand up and puts the palm of it against my forehead, tilting my head back and trapping me where he can reach the back of my neck. "Don't pull away," he murmurs. He bites down harder this time, and I shiver against him, and that makes my cock jerk against his hand. "Good boy," he says, and he gives me a soft, slow caress through that thin fabric, and I shudder, hard. "Good boy," he says again, then sinks his teeth into the base of my neck where it meets my shoulder. "Come, boy. Just like this."

Miserably, I close my eyes, shake once, and then come _hard_ , my cock jerking against his palm and getting my shorts, my pants, his hand sticky with it. I haven't come in my pants since I first made out with another boy, Christ, and oh God, the humiliation is so thick my throat closes and I can hardly breathe.

"Good boy," Christian says, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. And I grope for it.

"Please," I whisper.

"What do you want, boy?" He still has his hand on my softening cock, and strokes hard; I jerk, but don't pull away. I let my head drop against his palm.

"Please, Sir, I want to be good for you."

I feel as if I'm running for the edge of something, something vicious and cruel and dangerous, something I don't know if I even want but couldn't stop trying for if you lit me on fire and burned me raw. Jesus. Wherever he's taking me, I have to go. I have to see what's there.

"You can be," he tells me. "If you want to be good for me, I'll let you. How do you want to be good for me?" He gives me another squeeze, another caress, and I cry out from the pain of it. This time I can feel the shudder that rips through his body, and I stop trying to muffle my cries, stop trying to hold them back. I let him hear all the misery and pain he's giving me, let him hear that I feel this way and yet I'm not trying to back away.

"Please, Sir, do you want to fuck me?"

He executes another slow thrust against my arse. "I'd like that," he hums.

"Then please, please, Sir, fuck me. Please."

He pulls his hands away from me, and I hear the sounds of zipper, then condom, then the breaking of a lube packet. He tugs my pants down over my hips and thrusts two slick fingers into me, thrusts them in hard. Oh, _Christ_ , and this is what I asked for, and I'm getting it, and _Jesus_.

He goes in so hard I cry out again, and it pushes me against the couch so I can't go anywhere. I can't pull forward; there's nowhere to go. I can't pull backward; that only leads to him. I end up writhing underneath him, and he puts his hands on my hips to keep me still.

It's slow, but Christ it's rough, his cock lunging into me in unforgiving, deep strokes, filling me completely, and I can see stars and I'm begging him again, "Please, oh God, too much, Sir, Christian, please, can't, oh God... please, please stop..."

And he doesn't. He doesn't stop.


	12. No Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what it's like to own someone.

I'm not stopping because we both know he doesn't want me to stop. He's mine, and his body is proving it to both of us. He's arching under me, and it feels so good I don't know how long I'll last, but I want it to be a nice long rough fuck, the kind that gets him into tears by the end of it.

"Christian--"

I thrust in sharp enough to make him scream. "No," I murmur.

"...oh, God. Oh, God." He swallows. "Sir. Please. Hurts."

"Do you like hurting for me?" I whisper.

He struggles, and he pushes with his arms, trying to turn over. I pull my body off his so I can plant a hand between his shoulderblades and press down _hard_. "Not going anywhere," I tell him. "Stay quiet and take it for me."

 _For me._

My eyes close, and I have trouble breathing steadily. He's taking it for me, taking pain and humiliation for me, begging for me, wanting it all because I'm giving it to him.

So this is what it's like to own someone, own someone down to his skin and past it. This is what it's like to have a boy call you _Sir_ and move past his limits for you.

We haven't even scratched the surface, Jon and I, and I know now that I won't be able to go back from this. I can feel myself falling, getting in over my head, and I can't stop it. I don't want to stop it.

I need him. Christ, I need him, and I hope he never knows how much.

He's still struggling under me, but it's mostly come to a stop. I press in hard and just hold still.

"Tell me," I whisper.

"Please," he says.

" _Tell me._ "

"Please, hurts, don't stop, don't stop..."

I set my teeth together and exhale, hard, then pull out, press in, no more foreplay, no more teasing, just rough fast strokes until he's screaming with every one and those screams have me so close to the edge that I could go over at any moment if I could only find what I'm looking for -- I need it, want it, want to fall, but there's something more than this, something else I need, and--

" _Oh, God, please, please, Sir, please._ "

\--that's it -- that note of desperation, that sound of aching, wrenching _need_ , echoing everything I'm feeling right now. I need to give it to him this way, and he needs me to take it. Jesus.

One more thrust. Two. Three, and I come for him, growling, arching, pressing in over and over until I'm so spent I'm shaking from it. I collapse over his back, gasping and trying to get my breath.

I have never come like this before. I have never felt this way.

I reach out and thread fingers through his hair, an oddly gentle caress after all that. "Jon," I murmur.

"Please," he whispers, and I can feel the way he's shaking underneath me. If I could get hard again this fast, if I could fuck him again right now, oh God, just that tone of voice and the way his body shakes under mine -- God, I want him.

I _need_ him.

I pull away.

He stays there, stays down. Collapsed. As if he doesn't know which end is up anymore. And I can hardly blame him. I button up my pants and help him stand, putting my arm around his shoulders and backing him up a bit. I help him around so he can sit, and he hisses as he lowers himself to the couch.

He clings to me. It takes me by surprise; I didn't expect him to want to touch me after that. I remember the first time Viggo fucked me while the knowledge that I was _his_ was sharp in my mind -- I wanted him to leave me alone, and he did just that, leaving me on the floor while I was naked and shivering and lost in my own tears.

Jon is different. Jon fists both hands in my shirt and buries his head against my shoulder, and when I wrap my arms around him, I can feel him trembling. Trembling turns to shaking; shaking turns to gasps of breath, and those gasps turn into sobs. Beautiful, desperate sobs with his face buried against my shoulder.

I hold him, and I let him get it all out. My hands stay still on his back until he's let everything go, and then drift up, lazy circles, soothing him until he goes quiet.

Viggo would know exactly what to say right now. Christ, I wish I did.

"I don't know how to do any of this," Jon whispers. "I don't know how any of it works."

"I know," I tell him. My voice is so soft it's barely a breath against the top of his head, but he hears me anyway. Maybe he can hear the sound of my voice reverberating through my chest; I don't know.

"I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you." That's all I can tell him, all that will make sense to him right now. And at least it's true.

"All right," he says. His voice shakes a little as he says it, and he lets his grip on my shirt relax, then tightens his fists in the fabric again. "However you want it. Just... make me _feel_ it. That way. Make me feel it again."

 _Oh, Christ, boy, you have no idea._

"I can give you that," I whisper. I press my lips to the top of his head. "Do you trust me?"

"I don't know." He laughs. "Should I trust you?"

"No." I grin. "But you don't have any choice."


	13. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what it means to belong to someone.

They look at me oddly these days. Ewan, Toni -- everyone except Christian.

I don't talk to them much. I mean, I do, but my voice has changed a little. I'm more quiet. A little more deliberate. Christian has this idea that ~~slaves~~ boys should be careful when they speak, because what they say reflects on their ~~owners~~ masters, and I can't really blame him, can I?

So I don't talk much anymore.

And I don't spend much time with anyone off the set. Those nights I used to spend with Ewan seeing who could drink to utter stupidity first and who'd owe who a blowjob in the morning? Gone.

...I don't miss them. I don't miss _anything_ , and I'm _not_ sorry. And maybe that should scare me, but it doesn't.

They don't know what it's like, _belonging_ to someone. I didn't know, either. I didn't know how much I could need it -- how much I could want it. I mean, there have been people I've wanted over the course of my life, people I've liked, maybe even one or two I'd say, in retrospect, that I loved. But no one's ever made me feel _full_ the way Christian does (and please, Christ, I don't mean that in a vulgar fashion). He makes me feel complete, as if I've found all the missing pieces, as if I can let the rest of the world fade and just _be his_.

I don't know what it is. It's not love, is it? It's somehow more than that, and less. I don't know if I'll fall in love with him. I know that I have feelings of gratitude for what he gives me that mean more than any love I might ever have known in the past. Sometimes after he fucks me or after he hurts me I look up at him and all I want, all I think I could ever want in this world, is his eyes on me, his hand on my cheek, his voice saying "Good boy." I don't know what all that says about me. Was I missing something as a child? Am I naturally submissive in ways I'd never thought about?

I don't care. I really don't.

I think -- it _is_ a form of love, and I think, I hope, he has the same kind of love for me. I think we complete each other, in ways he's never been complete before, certainly in ways I haven't been -- I didn't even know there were spaces in me.

My thoughts raced, once, and there are certain things I've picked up over the years to stop them. I'd talk to myself, a little. I had a few different things I'd say to get those thoughts to stop, and so sometimes I'd walk around having a normal conversation with a mate and my head would snap to the side and I'd whisper _Shut the fuck up, Jonathan_. And friends who know me well knew what that meant, but it always gathered so many questions.

Christian doesn't gather questions. Or maybe he does and I've just never had to hear about it.

Those thoughts don't race anymore. When I'm under him it's him and that's all -- just the need to please him, the desire to be everything he needs from me. And I know when I'm doing well, because his face -- his expression -- no, it's neither of those things. It's a feeling, something that passes between us, something that's hungry and electric and beautiful. Those are the times when I end it smiling, no matter how much it hurts, and he holds me close and gives me the words -- _Good boy_ \-- and yet I don't need them.

Maybe people are still looking at us oddly. I've lost a lot of friends, I suspect, and I'm sorry for that. I can't say I don't care about losing them.

But it's not what's important. Christian is what's important. I hope to hell this never ends; I don't want to be who I was before he took me.

He makes phone calls at night. Every night. They worry me. He leaves the room to do it; orders me not to follow. Orders me not to ask questions. If I were to move, if I were try to listen in, he'd cuff me to the bed and take the phone calls in the kitchen. He hasn't said so, but I know that much.

He comes away from those calls looking drained. He won't say who he's calling, but whoever it is, he'd die before he'd miss one of those calls. He comes away from them looking flushed, spent. He won't touch me immediately afterwards, and I think that's what scares me the most. I'm his boy. I want to help him. Whatever this is, I want him to fuck it out of his system. Get it gone. Let me have it, fuck it into me, beat it into me so it'll leave him alone.

I don't think I ever want to know who he calls.

It's worth everything, belonging to him. I'm not even going into the sex, because yeah, the sex is good -- Jesus, it's better than I imagined sex could get, and I've done a lot of _imagining_ over the years -- but that's not all this is, and I think that's what makes it so captivating. I was giving him my body before I even knew what I was doing, before I knew what he was, what he wanted. That was easy. Too easy. Now I'm giving him the rest of me, the parts most people would have to earn. He doesn't waste time trying to earn things. He simply comes in and he takes them, and _that_ , I think, is what I've been needing all these years.

Here's what worries me. I wonder whether he'll ever want to take my love. Will he want that from me, and what if I need to give it to him and he doesn't want to take it? What if I want to give him more than he wants? Would he tell me to go? Would he try to find someone else to take me? What would happen to us?

So even if I fall for him, that's something I can't give him until he asks it of me. I hope he'll demand it someday. I hope. If he tells me to love him, I will, and I won't be afraid of it anymore. If he never does... I've given up a hell of a lot for him. And I don't know if I could take it back, even if he told me to go.


	14. Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo's afraid this thing between Christian and Jon might have gone too far.

He's been away from me too long. He's starting to forget he's a slave. _My_ slave. This is not something I'm willing to accept.

He still calls me every night. There's that much. And he still kneels. Still begs.

But I can tell he doesn't think he _needs_ to beg. This boy, this Jonathan, my slave thinks he owns him.

Slaves.

Do.

Not.

Own.

I'm angrier than I should be about this. Anger is not an emotion in which masters should indulge. And yet... I can't quite help myself.

The shoot ended. And he hasn't come back to me yet. He will, but he's got a few pieces of publicity to handle first -- with this Jonathan -- and then he's bringing the boy with him, when he comes to me.

I have ideas. I have thoughts on how to manage this. But I think they're going to be simple. I think I'm going to tie him down, tie his boy down, and have his boy watch while I put Christian in his place. I won't be angry, and I won't draw blood, and I won't put Christian in a place where his boy will beg on his behalf, but Christian needs to know who he belongs to.

I could give him up. There will probably be a strong temptation to do just that when we see each other again. Acknowledge that my boy discovered he doesn't want to be a submissive anymore, accept him as a top, and move on with our lives.

I don't move on that easily. I can't. If one can give up on the present with so little thought, what does it say about the present? That it's meaningless? What does it say about the past, and all the work it took to get where we are now? That it was worthless, a waste of time? I can't say those things.

I remember when we first met. I remember how innocent he looked, and how easy it was to break him. I remember that he needed it rough, sharp, hard, fast, cruel. He wanted to survive it as alone as possible, given that we were going into it together. I gave him that. I gave him his solitude, as often as he needed it.

Maybe that's why I've been losing him.

It doesn't matter. He isn't lost _yet_. He has his boy, and he's had his freedom, but enough. He needs to remember.

As for the boy... I'm not certain what I'll do about him. Slaves do not own, and it troubles me that the boy may not know what he's gotten into at all. He may not know what Christian is to me, may have no idea that Christian is a slave himself. I don't want to destroy the boy, and so I may be forced to give a concession that unnerves me a bit. But it isn't his fault. _Jonathan_. None of this is because of him.

...or perhaps it's all because of him.

Fuck. I don't know.

I'd be within my rights to tell Christian to give the boy up. I could tell him that at any moment. And I simply cannot bring myself to do it. A great deal of it is for that boy's sake -- the shock of belonging to someone only to find out that you do not, and never did, would be a cruelty I can't perform on a stranger. Regardless of the results, Jon has never done anything with the _intention_ of destroying what I've spent years fashioning with Christian. I do not bear him any ill will.

Most of it is that. But part of it, too, is that Christian may need what this boy gives him. Christian's needs are, as they have always been, important. I can't offer him what this boy gives him, not without bringing in boys of my own -- and even then, it might fail. He was friends with Jonathan first. It could be, partly, the connection between them that existed before the dynamic shifted.

I have no intention of giving him up. No intention of throwing away everything we are to each other. He'll come back, and they'll both learn where their places are. I'll give Christian the kind of pain he's begged for since the beginning. He'll remember he's owned.

He _will_ remember.

...damn it.

I find myself wondering, more than anything, what kind of master I've trained. What has he learned in his time with me? How much of it is instinct? What does he do for Jonathan that he takes directly from his experiences with me, and what does he do that I would never have imagined?

I could ask. But I think this, too, could be a worthwhile lesson. I'll have them show me. Have Christian show me what his boy can do. And I'm curious what _Christian_ is capable of as well.

First, though... first we get Christian under me. It won't be gentle; I can't afford it. Then we'll see what my boy's learned, and whether I need to be afraid, or impressed, or feel the initial stages of loss.

I'm not ready to grieve him yet. Christ, but I hope this goes well.


	15. My Master's Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally meets Viggo.

Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to make him happy, or get him out of this, that's what I'll do.

I sit next to Christian, my hands in my lap. We're both in the back seat of a taxi, one which is taking him to his Master's house.

His Master. _My_ Master has a master of his own.

And I knew that. I feel fucking foolish for forgetting it, but Christian and I -- we've been together long enough, we've been _exclusive_ long enough, and I thought that whoever the older man was, whoever he was, he was out of the picture by now.

And he's not. Now I know he's not. He's the one Christian calls every night, and now I know why. He calls to beg. For _me_. Christian goes to his knees every night to beg for permission to have _me_.

Part of me, I can't deny, is unutterably flattered. The rest of me is _angry_. I want Christian out from under this man's thumb. I want Christian free to do what he wants.

Well. I'm a selfish fucking bastard, is what I am; I want Christian to have his time free for me, and I don't want him coming out from those phone calls looking shaken.

The worst of it was the phone call that led to this "visit" of ours. He called his Master -- Viggo, remember that, his Master's name is Viggo -- and Viggo told him that Christian was going to come home. That I was supposed to accompany him. As soon as everything was done and the two of us could leave.

 _Everything_ turned out to take longer than we expected, and I admit that in part, I was trying to draw it out. If there was another interview I could take, I took it. If there was another event to go to, I volunteered. By the end of it, Christian put me on my back, in our bed, and he pressed down on my upper arms, keeping me from moving.

"Stop delaying it," he ordered. "You're making it worse for both of us."

But I can't see how anything could be worse than going somewhere and knowing my Master isn't really _mine_. I have to go to see Viggo and know that instead of belonging to Christian, I belong to Viggo by proxy. One thing leading to another, and we're both Viggo's in the end. Because whatever Viggo asks of Christian, Christian will give, and whatever Christian asks of me, _I_ have to give. I don't have any choice, nor do I want it, and so if Viggo tells Christian to fuck me, then I'll fuck my Master for his Master's entertainment. If Viggo tells Christian to have me suck Viggo off, I'll have to do it.

I hate him already.

We make it to the doorway, and Christian takes one look at my expression and puts his hands on my shoulders. He kneads my flesh, gets my muscles to relax. "I want you to behave," he murmurs. "Don't embarrass me in front of Viggo."

I flush, going bright red. My thoughts were transparent, and I know this -- to Christian, they always are -- but I hate that Christian was so certain I'd misbehave if he didn't remind me of my place. I _don't_ want to be an embarrassment to Christian. That's more important to me than anything.

And so when the door swings open, I lower my eyes immediately, not even looking at Viggo's face. I stand by Christian's side, and when Christian starts walking, I start walking two paces behind him. We both file into Viggo's house, and Viggo doesn't bother with preliminaries; he pushes Christian up against the wall and plants him there with one heavy hand between his shoulderblades.

"Introduce me to your boy," Viggo murmurs. His voice is so quiet I can barely make out the words.

"Master, your slave introduces his boy--" Christian waits, as if expecting a correction or a reprimand for that, but when nothing is forthcoming, continues, "Jonathan."

"Hello, Jonathan," Viggo greets me. He pauses, then says, "Look me in the eyes, Jonathan."

I do, and the hatred and rage I'm feeling are masked by the overriding, overwhelming concern for Christian. Christian's pinned, and I don't know if he wants to be. Oh, God, _stop_. Please stop.

Viggo's eyes are very blue, and he doesn't seem at all interested in the way I'm biting my lower lip and darting glances over to Christian as often as I can spare them. "You have a very beautiful boy, Christian," Viggo murmurs. "May I take him?"

It shocks both of us that Viggo is asking permission. He shouldn't have to, but neither of us correct him. Christian, from his spot crushed into the wall, says, "Of course, Master," and my heart lurches a bit; I had, for a moment, hoped he'd say _no_. Viggo lets him go, then, and my heart sings. I would have done anything to get Viggo to let my Master off the wall, and fucking him is nothing. Absolutely I'd fuck him for that.

"Take your pants down, Jonathan," Viggo murmurs. He's already digging lube and condom out of his pocket, and though I'm not sure where he wants me for this, I obey, dropping my pants to my knees and lifting my sweater up over my hipbones so my cock is showing.

Viggo half-laughs at that. "Nice," he approves, but I think it's for the actions and not my cock, which is not hard yet. "Don't you think so, Christian? He's very obedient. Is he like this for you, or does he fight you at all?"

Christian's forehead is still against the wall, though he's no longer pinned there. "He's beautiful, Master, very obedient," he whispers.

"Turn around, Christian, and lean against the wall."

Viggo comes over behind me and puts an arm around my chest. He takes his pants down, slicks the condom on, and then I feel his fingers working into my ass.

 _God._ They feel _good_.

"Master," I whisper.

"It's all right, Jon," Christian tells me.

"It's fine," Viggo whispers in my ear. "Relax."

I relax, and Viggo kicks my legs apart as far as my pants will allow. He finishes with the lube, and then he bends his knees and lines himself up, and though it's awkward and the angle isn't perfect, he manages to slide into me.

 _Oh, God._ He feels _fucking amazing_.

"Come over here," Viggo murmurs to Christian; his voice is thick now with arousal, and I moan, hearing it. "Drop to your knees, boy, and take his cock in your mouth."

My eyes widen. We've done a lot of things, but not that. Not yet. I haven't earned it yet. I whimper, pressing myself against Viggo. "Please, Master," I whisper.

"He's your Master," Viggo tells me. "But he's still my boy." His eyes are sharp on Christian. "Do it."


	16. Studied Disobedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian's torn between his urge to go down for Viggo and his urge to keep Jon in his place.

I can't describe how this makes me feel. I can't _think_. I want to be on my knees in front of my boy; I want the taste of his cock, of his come, in my mouth, but I want it because Master asks it of me. If it were up to us, as it has been for the past two months, I would not be kneeling for my boy. Not yet. I know I will, in the end, but not yet. He's good, and he's been getting better every day, but this is a reward I meant to save for something special. Doing something particularly well when I know he's having trouble, or...

...but wait. That's not unlike what's happening here.

Oh, God. I can feel desire crest over me, as soon as that realization hits me. Jon is being so good. So very, very good, though I know how hard it is for him, seeing me with Viggo, letting Viggo take him, accepting Viggo's ownership of me.

 _Yes._ He deserves this.

I go to my knees in front of my boy and caress his hip with one hand. "My beautiful boy," I whisper. "I _want_ to do this for you."

"Christian," Viggo warns -- I hear the tone in his voice that says _don't delay, boy_ \-- but I need the connection with my boy first, damn it, and if there's hell to be paid afterwards, then so be it.

"Jon, look at me."

Jon's eyes, dark with desire, go down to me. He tries to reach out for me, but Viggo's arm is around his chest, pinning both arms to his sides, and he can only move his fingers toward me, lightly gracing one of my cheeks with his fingertips.

"I want you to enjoy what's happening to you," I tell him. "You're being so good for me. You _deserve_ this."

He lets out a shuddered moan and nods, and I fit my mouth over his cock.

He arches up into my mouth, and I feel the added surge of strength that marks Viggo pushing him still further. "That's it," Viggo whispers. To my boy. "Take him."

Jon's moan is confused, heartfelt, and desperate; he thrusts into my mouth again, gasping, and then draws away, and I know it's to fit himself on Viggo's cock again.

I am not envious. No -- I should say that I'm not envious because Viggo is taking him. I'm not envious of the way Viggo's _fucking_ him. But Viggo is giving him _orders_ , and I want Jon's attention on _me_. Damn it.

I moan around his cock and swallow him down harder, faster, taking half his length in my mouth and wrapping a hand around the rest. I stroke, roughly, with my hand, and give fast licks to the head of his cock. I want him drawn up to the edge with _my_ mouth, want him going there because _I_ want it.

This isn't how I use my mouth with Viggo -- soft, fuckable wetness, so he can grab me by the hair and _fuck_ me. No -- this is me, fucking my boy, even though I'm on my knees and he's plunging his cock into my mouth. I feel the scrape of my teeth against his skin, and hear him hissing as he goes in and draws back. He's such a good boy. I've taught him so much in the last two months.

He won't go over unless I tell him to go. He's close, and I can feel it in the heat of his body, the way his hips are beginning to jerk. But he won't come unless I allow it. I--

"Come, Jon," Viggo murmurs.

I glance up, trying to make them out; I can tell Jon's resisting, because he _doesn't_ come immediately, and I hear stuttered, almost angry breaths from my boy.

"Jon." And then Jon is pushed _hard_ into my mouth, and I have to relax the muscles of my throat to keep from choking. "Come. _Now._ "

Jon whimpers at that. "Please," he says.

"Christian, tell your boy to come," Viggo says, and it's a warning. But Jon's cock is in my mouth, and while we're like this, we have a certain power over Viggo, the two of us, _together_. Jon won't come until I tell him, and I won't tell him until _I_ want to. And I can keep from telling him, because by Christ, Viggo orders one thing, then he orders another, and he should know better. You give conflicting orders, and your boy can take advantage.

I'm taking advantage now.

I suck harder and Jon moans, his moans becoming more urgent; I feel Viggo pumping my boy harder into my mouth, and Jon's fingers clutch hard into fists. I have never tested my boy so much. And if he comes before I tell him, I _will_ punish him, but Christ, I am so fucking proud of him. I didn't know he could be this good for me. My very, very good boy.

"Christian, stop sucking him off and tell your boy to _come_ ," Viggo rasps; I know the tone in his voice, too, and know that he's getting close.

And there's the last of my ability to resist without guaranteeing that _I'll_ get into trouble; I yank my mouth away from Jon's cock and growl out, "Come, boy."

And then I dive back on his cock, giving him sharp strokes with my tongue, making sure he has every possible pleasurable sensation when he does. He's earned them all.

Viggo tries to pull Jon back, but I follow; he grunts out, "No -- on his _face_ , boy," but it doesn't matter; Jon is already coming in my mouth, and I'm swallowing it, greedy for it, my tongue flicking around the head of his cock as he comes and making my boy _scream_.

That scream sends Viggo over, and he pushes Jon's cock deeper into my mouth as he comes with angry, frustrated grunts.

And I rest here on my heels, and after I take my mouth away from my boy's cock, I crawl back and put my forehead on the floor. There'll be hell to pay for that, but I will keep my boy from it if it fucking kills me.

He did well. He did _very_ well.


	17. What We Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo accepts the new paradigm.

Well.

 _That_ could have gone better...

Christian's gotten very clever. He hasn't been this devious since I first took him on, in fact, and part of me is amused, somewhat pleased, and I can't help that. My boy's earned my respect in a way he hadn't until now.

Unfortunately, he earned it through disobedience; worse, he learned it through disobedience in front of his boy.

I let them have the day free, after the scene in the entryway; I told Christian to clean off his boy, to take care of him, and I left them on their own. I went to Christian and told him not to hide. Whatever it is they're going to do, they won't be doing it in private; it's one thing for them to have a day free of more orders, but something else for them to have a day of privacy, where they can pretend it's only the two of them...

I know, now, that I'm not going to be able to keep Christian. I have to decide what to do about it.

I watch them from the doorway, my shoulder pressed against the frame as I look at them out in the yard. They're beautiful together, and I think Christian cares for Jon in a way he's never grown to care for me. I can see a look in Jon's eyes that I've never seen in Christian's.

I'm not jealous. I want them both happy; this doesn't bother me. But there are regrets -- I regret not having found this for myself, yet, and I regret not having a better solution to the problem of owning a boy who's found a boy to own and love.

But God, they're beautiful together.

Christian is sprawled on the grass in the backyard, and Jon's head is in his lap. Christian is running fingers through Jon's hair, and Jon's eyes are closed, tilted up so his face is warmed by the sun. Jon has his cock out, and he's stroking himself while Christian watches. It's a lazy stroke and he's been at it for some time, which doesn't surprise me now -- he was able to hold himself back for far longer than I expected. Christian isn't nearly so good at that; I can already see places where their talents differ.

Every so often Christian leans down to whisper something to Jon, and Jon's hips shift.

I can't keep him.

I turn away from them.

I don't know how to let him go.

* * *

I tell Christian to put his boy in the guest room while he and I have dinner. Christian will have more than enough opportunity to have dinner with his boy after; this talk, though...

This is a talk for Masters, and not boys. I haven't told him yet, but he'll understand when he comes in.

His place is across from me, not at the floor by my feet; when he sees the place setting, his eyes glance past it at first and he frowns when he sees nothing on the floor. I meet his gaze, and then flick my eyes toward the chair across from me. He blinks, but then sits down and puts the napkin in his lap while I pour wine.

"I'd keep you if I could," I tell him. "I want you to know that."

"I... don't understand, Master."

"You don't understand, _Viggo_ ," I correct, "and yes, Christian, you do understand; you simply haven't wanted to accept it yet." I lift an eyebrow. "Tell me why. It's what you want."

He looks down and then props an elbow up on the table and leans forward, staring at me intently. "I don't want it to be taken away from me later," he tells me. "I want to know that it's _real_ , what you're offering me. That you mean it."

"I mean it," I tell him. I lift my glass and wait for him to lift his.

After a few moments, he does.

"To what was and to what will be," I offer.

He nods, and we drink.

* * *

Christian comes to me that night, even though I know he'd rather be with Jon. To celebrate. I don't mind it; I encouraged it. I offered them whatever they wanted; my basement, my library of tools. Christian wanted none of it, and when the moonlight finds him crawling naked into my room, I sit up and turn on the lamp.

"Stop this," I tell him. My voice is hoarse.

"I wanted to come to you this way," he tells me; by this time, he's reached the side of my bed and let his head drop to the floor. "I wanted you to know that I would have liked to stay, once."

"Christian--"

He kneels up for me and puts his forearms on the bed, leaning forward toward me. "I want you to know what you've meant to me."

I can't help touching him. I rest my palm against his cheek. "I know," I murmur.

He nuzzles against my hand. "If you will not be my Master, be my friend. My counsel, when I need you, and my teacher."

I lean down to wrap arms around him. "Damn it, Christian, I'm going to miss you."

"I know."

He does, doesn't he? He knows me better than any of my other boys have; he knows how much I _need_.

I am jealous. I'm jealous of him for finding what he needed so easily. I've been looking for nearly as long as he's been alive, and I haven't found it.

Someday.


	18. Impatient Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Christian haven't seen each other in a while, and Christian needs to make sure Jon remembers who he belongs to.

Jon's been busy over the last year. More work than ever, and he's loving it. And I don't mind it. He thought I might, at first -- that I'd hate being apart from him, that I wouldn't want him to take the jobs -- but I appreciate having some distance, and having the opportunity to come up with devious things for him while we're apart.

You'd be amazed, the things you can convince a boy to do while he's on a different continent. _I'm_ amazed, continually, by how far I can push him.

I do miss him. Of course I miss him -- he's _mine_ , and I miss having him twined around my feet, at the foot of my bed, when I'm going to sleep.

I miss having him kneeling beside me, taking delicate little bites of his food when I give him his breakfast.

I miss his company, and his ability to make me smile. I miss the way he dressed, though for Christ's sake I certainly can't tell _him_ that. I miss wincing and telling him he was going to put my eyes out with his shirts.

I miss my boy, my lover, my friend. My companion.

But he's got his job, and I have mine. And oh Christ, some of it's been difficult. Then again, for some of it, I'm glad we were parted. I wonder if I would have had the required discipline to do the kind of training I needed last year if I'd had a warm, purring boy at home, waiting for me.

He was startled by the change. Startled is putting it mildly. He was shell-shocked when I finally had three weeks off and could come to see him.

I remember the look on his face when I showed up at his hotel door. He was in pajamas, a grey t-shirt, blue plaid flannel pants that hung down well past his ankles and puddled on the floor. And God, he looked good; I pushed him inside and slammed him against the wall, ready to devour him.

He pushed against me, and I went nowhere. And then he pushed harder, as if trying to figure out why I wasn't going anywhere. And I had to laugh.

"Master...?"

" _Later,_ " I growled at him, and I dragged him into the room and pushed him down on the couch, tugging his pants past his hips and yanking down my own. "Missed you, boy."

"I -- missed you, too, Master," and his voice was still confused, if happy.

Fumbling with condom, fumbling with lube, it was frustrating enough to wrench irritated curses from me. Jon turned and looked back at me, and he yanked the lube out of my hand and slid his hand between his legs, prepping himself for me. Bent over the couch as he was, it was fucking beautiful to watch, even if it _was_ more leeway than I should have granted him. I'd ruined the condom; I was digging for another when he finished.

"Just fuck me," he snapped.

I stopped in my tracks, wanting him but unable to believe that tone was coming from my _boy_.

"Please, Master, it's been seven fucking months," Jon said, and I grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him _hard_ into the couch cushions, lining myself up and pressing in.

He wasn't lubed enough. It wasn't anywhere near enough, and I had to put my teeth together and growl and curse my way inside him. He was choking under my hand, and bucking up against me, convulsing and moaning and pleading with me. When his hands went searching for me again, I grabbed his wrists and shoved them down by the sides of his head, and there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. He was _trapped_ , and I fucking adored it.

I couldn't last; seven months, my cock bare in him, my beautiful, disobedient boy begging me to hurt him. I think I made it all of two minutes before I was slamming hard against him, shouting into the nape of his neck, coming inside him.

And he panted for breath when I was done with him, moaning and squirming beneath me.

I let him up, but only enough for him to breathe. Pant. Plead. Beg me. Thank me.

"Master," he purred. "Missed you."

"Hmm." I gave him one more thrust, and he shuddered under me. "Missed you, too, boy." I licked the back of his neck. "Going to beg me to let you come?"

"Master, I -- your boy apologizes, Master; I couldn't wait."

***

Seven months. Seven months we'd been apart, and he greets me with insolence and overuse of initiative, and now _this_. I was, to put it mildly, furious.

I still had him pinned down; I pushed myself back so one of my hands rested on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck. "You couldn't wait," I murmured. "You couldn't wait to have me fuck you; you couldn't wait to come until I gave the word. Why..." I gave him a heavy shove into the couch. "...did I even bother coming here, boy?"

A few moments' struggle passed, where he seemed to debate saying any number of things. He went limp under me, in the end, and murmured, "Your boy is sorry, Master."

I pulled out of him and drew my pants back up, sighing. "Get your clothes off and kneel at my feet."

He didn't hesitate, and for a moment it was very much like having my boy back.

My beautiful, obedient boy, who'd broken for me more than a year ago, who'd _wanted_ to break for me even though he'd never broken for anyone first.

My boy, who'd come for me once when I was biting across his shoulders. My boy, who'd once told me he didn't like biting.

And now my boy, who was looking up at me, eyes meeting mine, as if _daring_ me to punish him for all his misdeeds of the first fucking ten minutes we'd been together again.

I took a step back and pointed at the nearest wall. "Get your nose on the wall. Hands behind your back. Go."

He went, and as soon as his nose was to the wall, I was crushing him against it, my hand back at the nape of his neck. I simply rested my weight on him, and let him struggle.

After a few moments of _that_ , he got the idea fairly quickly that he wasn't going anywhere. And that was enough to begin with. I drew my hand down over the curve of his back, over his hands, bound with nothing but my directive, over his ass, smiling as I slid two fingers in and rubbed at his prostate. He jumped in shock, and I brought my other hand up to pin his nose against the wall again.

"Did you miss me?" I murmured.

"Yes, Master."

Another hard twitch against his prostate; another jump, another slam back into the wall, face-first. "Tell me how else you've disobeyed my orders since we've been apart."

He whimpered, then, against the brush of my fingers. "Please, Master..."

"Do you think being separated gives you any fucking leeway whatsoever?" Another hard press, and he let out a beautiful half-scream.

"N-- no, Master."

"Do you think you can fuck up without my finding out about it eventually?"

"No, Master."

I slid my fingers out of his ass, then, and he let out a long, relieved sigh. Only to cut it off abruptly when I slid back in with three fingers, twisting them, brushing my knuckles against his prostate.

" _Master_ \--"

"Tell me how you've fucked up." I brought my lips to his ear, and started fucking him, not too gently, with my fingers. "Have you brought yourself off?"

"...yes, Master," he whispered.

"More than once?"

"Yes, Master."

A hard thrust in with my fingers. "More than five times?"

"No, Master."

The hand on the back of his neck eased up, just a little, for that. "Have you been with someone else?"

"No, Master."

"Think carefully, boy. Over the phone?"

"No, Master."

"Had someone up to your room?"

"Yes, Master, but not for sex, Master."

"Did you bring yourself off in front of someone else?"

" _No_ , Master, _please_. Haven't fucked anyone. Haven't sucked anyone off, haven't touched anyone. Just myself, just when I needed you so badly I couldn't stand it, _please_ , Master."

I leaned down and bit the curve of his shoulder. "All right," I murmured.

Getting him back from that level of disobedience wasn't easy, but he's my boy, and he's worth the effort. He didn't come for the rest of that visit, and by the time I left, he was kneeling for me with the proper look of respect in his eyes again.

And he was more than pleased at the way I'd gotten stronger. I could keep him pinned without effort. He spent hours running fingertips over my newly-defined musculature, and murmuring approval when he was near sleep and I'd rewarded him by holding him close.

This time around it's me who's got a new job; I'm going to Berlin to work on a science-fiction action movie. It ought to be interesting.


	19. Untethered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo can tell Sean needs something; he asks Christian to help out.

New Zealand. What in God's green earth am I doing in New Zealand? How did I get here? I must be out of my mind.

I could joke and say that I'm here because I've been looking for something, passionately looking, for the last two years, and haven't found it. But I have to be honest: I've stopped looking. It's not worth it anymore. I'm not going to find what I need. I was close once. And then I couldn't bear the search anymore, knowing I was never going to get anywhere.

So the search is done, and I'm out of the game.

It's funny; you'd think Christian would have been the one calling me, looking for something, needing something. We haven't talked much in the last two years, and when we have, I've been the one picking up the phone. Just wanting to hear from him. Wanting to reconnect, to prove that all the things I've felt were real once.

There _was_ a reality among the shadows at one point, wasn't there? I have to believe that. Even if I'm unconvinced I could find it again.

The people here are all very nice. Friendly. It really _is_ a Fellowship of sorts, and I can see the way people have divided themselves off. We have the hobbits; we have Orlando, who fits himself in wherever he pleases. We have the wizards.

Sean.

It makes me hurt just to look at him. He's beautiful, and the warmth in his smile does me in every fucking time I see it. He was quiet when I first met him, and now we're talking more, spending time together...

I find it difficult coming up with excuses _not_ to spend every night with him. I miss him when I haven't seen him in a while.

I'm not so out of practice that I can't tell an untethered boy when I see one. The way he moves, the way he watches people, the look on his face, sometimes, when we're watching Dom flirt with Billy or Orlando flirt with Elijah...

He's _hungry_. He's starved, in the same way I'm starved, and it hurts, seeing that hunger all over him.

He has no idea what I'd do to him, if I'd let myself.

He wants me, and he's offered; not as a boy to a potential master, but man-to-man. And that, God help me, that's been difficult to turn down. The smell of his beer on his breath that night we all went out dancing, the way his hands worked as we talked and laughed and watched the crowd, the way his drink spilled over his hand and he licked up the alcohol before drying his hands off with a napkin -- he doesn't know how badly I wanted to grab him, just fucking haul off and grab him by the back of the neck, drag him out of the bar, get him in the alley and fuck him against the wall. Fuck him until he couldn't speak, until his breath was torn from him in sobs.

Someday he's going to offer and I'm not going to be able to say no. And I'm going to kill myself, making it as easy and vanilla and _ignorable_ as I can. I don't want him coming back for more afterward. I don't want him looking at me and seeing how much I fucking _burn_ for him.

* * *

We're out at a bar tonight, all of us, and Orlando's on my lap. He has his lips pressed to my ear. Sean's looked at us once or twice, and his expression faltered when he did, so now he's looking away, talking to Cate, and--

\--oh, God. oh, God, Cate.

"Why the fuck haven't you just gone _after_ him?" Orlando is asking me. "I think you're getting to a point where it's either kill each other or fuck each other to death. Do us all a favor and do the second of those two, will you?"

I put a hand over Orlando's mouth and move him away from my ear, rather more roughly than is probably needed. It draws eyes.

It draws _Sean's_ eyes, which widen for a moment and then go back to Cate. He leans over and murmurs something to her, and she grins; they stand up together, and they leave.

They _leave_.

I push Orlando off my lap and stand up, eyes shooting sparks, following after them. Cate takes Sean's keys out of his hand and gets in his truck, and I can only stand there and stare as someone else takes my boy away from me.

 _Fuck._

* * *

"Christian? It's Viggo."

"...nnnrrfhfhfhf."

" _Boy._ "

"Master." The sleepy tone in his voice vanishes instantly. "How may I serve you?" And then I hear him really wake up, and he grunts. "What's going on?"

"I need..." I close my eyes. "I need a favor."

"Of course. Anything."

"A friend of mine's working on this movie of yours. He's about to leave for Berlin."

"Yes -- Oh, Bean? I've talked to him already, you know."

I try to ignore that, for the time being. "Will you do something for me?"

"Of course, Master."

This is something I shouldn't be asking him. He has a boy; he's not mine anymore.

"Break him for me."

Christian grunts again. "What?"

"He's a boy without a master." _And I want him._ "Break him for me."

Dead silence, and I wonder if I've gone too far.

"Why?" Christian asks, finally.

"Because he needs it." I stop. "Because I can't give it to him, and he needs it."

Another long pause. "All right," Christian murmurs. "For you, Master, I'll do it."


	20. New Zealand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean can't help wanting Viggo the way he does, even when someone else is here to help tether him.

I fucking hate New Zealand. I'm glad to be getting some time away. I won't be in Berlin for very long, but at least I'll be away from all those people.

...all right. At least I'll be away from Viggo.

He knows exactly what his eyes do to me. He knows what I'm trying to offer, and he holds himself away from me, as if he's afraid he'll shatter if he so much as touches me.

I'd take _anything_. I'd take a friendly roll in the sack or a fast blowjob in an alley or a handjob in a car. It doesn't have to be an all-or-nothing proposition.

But he won't take me. And I have to watch him with others, with Orlando, and pretend it doesn't bother me as much as it does.

Cate burned me with hot wax and hurt me until I begged her to stop, and kept hurting me until I gave her my safeword, and sent me home, and that was almost enough to keep me from caring that Viggo probably went home with Orlando and pounded the lucky little fucker into the wall.

It's worth getting on a goddamned airplane to get away from here. I think I'll get drunk before I leave.

Which reminds me: I should call Christian and be certain he's going to be there to get me when I arrive.

* * *

fuckin airplanes fuckin turbulence. fuck.

oh. Christian. Bale, right. bigger than I expected.

'slike looking at another version of Viggo but with bigger eyebrows. got the cheekbones right, don't he. mm. nice fuckin cheekbones. fuck.

"My God, what did they _give_ you on that airplane?"

lotta fuckin rum is what.

fuck.

"All right, let's get you into the car, Bean. Come on."

stop laughing at me. cheeky fuckin wanker. half my age. could fuckin sit on you.

"Up the stairs. Come on, keep coming up. Keep coming around. No, don't -- hey, keep away from the railing -- Bean."

oo. long way down.

" _Boy._ "

" _Yes, Sir._ "

...whaffuck?...

"Good boy. Come on. _Up._ "

oof. 's a hard bed. like 's made of wood or sommat.

"No, Bean, that's the floor. Your bed's over here. Come on."

fucker.

"You're going to hate me in the morning."

nah. not in new zealand. nothin to hate.

* * *

Oh, my fucking head. Christ.

"You all right there?"

I moan into my pillow, and I don't answer. I hear a clink against the nightstand and look up, peeling the pillow back -- oh, thank Christ, it's dim in here.

"Here. Take these, and drink this, and you'll feel better."

I swallow the tablets down and drink most of the water in one shot, and it's a fucking lie, it doesn't make me feel better, I just need to piss. Badly. I groan.

"You'll be fine, Sean. Relax."

"...how did I get undressed...?"

Christian snickers at me and helps me out of bed. "Come on. Do you have to do that every time you get on a plane?"

"Nearly," I murmur, and my voice comes out raspy.

"Damned inconvenient. We'll fix that."

I frown, but at least I'm in the bathroom now and I can piss. Christian turns and leaves the room so I can get started.

* * *

Holy fucking God.

"You're untethered," Christian hisses into my ear, and he snaps on the leather collar, buckling it behind my neck. He attaches the leash to the D-ring in the front and yanks so hard I fall to my hands and knees.

"So I'll fucking tether you."

I can't even speak. I don't know what's happening to me. I thought it was going to be a random fuck like it so often is and suddenly he's telling me to kneel and I'm saying _Yes, Sir_ as if I'm his already.

"You're going to break for me," he says, and he yanks at my leash, pulling me forward. I crawl a few steps toward him, and he chuckles.

"That's nice, Sean. That's damned nice."

"Sir--"

Another sharp yank, and I come forward a few more inches. "You don't fucking speak to me unless I tell you to," he hisses.

I shake my head.

And despite all this, despite the way he hurts me, despite the nearly expert way he breaks me, New Zealand never leaves my mind.


	21. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo's determined not to give in and take what Sean's offering him. Sean isn't making it easy.

Sean's back from Berlin, and he looks amazing. Rested. Beautiful. As if he's had nothing but joy in his last two weeks.

I'm not jealous.

I'm _not_ fucking jealous. I told Christian to break him, and I imagine he did a beautiful job. I imagine Sean was fucking ecstatic to have him. And it shouldn't matter that it wasn't me who broke him. Because those are places I don't go anymore. I can't break him. I'm damn happy for him that someone could.

He's eyeing me again, though, now that he's back, and it's driving me insane. I want something. Anything. Something to take the edge off.

I've had offers, but... it wouldn't be the same, really, would it? It's not what I want, when you come down to it.

I want _Sean_.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. "Come on," he says. "Drinks. Dancing. We can watch the hobbits make fools of themselves and celebrate that we're men and don't have to make spectacles of everything we do."

And I sigh, because I'm not going to say no to anything he asks when he's asking like that. I can't say no when I'm pressed up under his shoulder and I can smell his sweat, when I'm almost curled up against him and can picture making one small turn and pushing him against the wall and having him draw his leg up around my waist and God, God, _God_...

"Yeah, fine, Sean." I untangle myself from his arm. "I'll meet you there."

"I don't think so." He shakes his head and switches his grip to my waist. "I think you'll be driving me. Because you're going to take me home."

"Sean, come on..."

"Don't fucking say no to me tonight, Viggo." He tucks his nose into my neck and _nuzzles_ me, and I'm lost. So hard I could cut glass and I can't think well enough to say anything, much less the one word that goes against everything I want right now.

And then he goes on and cements his claim on me.

"I've been back three days and all I can think about is how much I want you."

"Oh, Christ, Sean..."

"Or we can skip the part where we're watching them, and you can take me home now."

"Sean." I stop him in his tracks, turn him so I'm facing him. I put my hands on his waist and drop my head on his shoulder. "It _hurts_ , the way I want you."

"So don't let it hurt you," he murmurs. He cups the back of my head in his hand and holds me close. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I almost want to laugh at that; given our tastes, I expect we're both wishing I could hurt him. That I could hurt him the way that will make us both ache from lust and need, until he's writhing under my hands and pleading with me to fuck him.

But I can't. I can't take him the way we both want. It hurts enough now. I don't think I could manage it if it were to get worse.

It's that thought that has me whispering "No," finally. I didn't know if I could say it, and I can tell by the way he goes rigid in my arms that he didn't expect it.

He lets me go, then, and I'm starting to wonder if _everything_ that happens is going to hurt me. Christ.

"All right," he says, and his voice is more even than I'd expect. "Come out with me tonight. Have a drink with me."

I can't say no to that. Fucking weak fool that I am. I nod, and we go off.

* * *

My eyes keep ending up stuck.

They end up stuck on his throat as he swallows his beer down in pleased, greedy gulps.

The play of his muscles under his shirt as it sticks to his back.

The way his eyes follow the crowd, never resting on any one person for long.

He doesn't look at me very much. It's a relief. Much though I'd like his focus, I know better. I know I'd be making promises I can't keep, and I don't want to go there.

When his hand comes down on my shoulder, and pushes, I grunt with surprise. He shoves me off the bench, and pushes me to my feet.

"Come on," he says. "It's time to go. You're giving me a ride home."

He didn't drive. He talked me into driving. I'd almost forgotten. And although he could get a ride home from nearly anyone, I'm not protesting too much as he pushes me out to my car.

He grabs for me as we get there, and tugs me up against him. Christ, I'm lost.

"You feel so good," he murmurs. "So good, Viggo. Come on. Kiss me."

I slam my hand into the car behind him and just hold steady. Don't kiss him. Don't ruin this. _Don't_.

"No," I whisper. "Come on. I'm taking you home."


	22. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo's afraid of going somewhere they can't come back from; Sean thinks they've already passed that point.

No. No. No.

He's not getting away from me this easily.

Viggo, for Christ's sake, I _know_ you want me. Stop fucking fighting it and _take_ me. Let yourself have me. I'm here, damn it. I want you.

Somehow I doubt it's going to be as easy as offering him the words.

He drives me home, and I feign more drunkenness than I'm feeling. I give myself a bit more inertia than I truly possess in an effort to get him to walk me inside, maybe put me to bed.

It works to a point. He takes my keys from me, when I pretend I can't find the proper one, and he helps me fit them in the door, and wraps an arm around my waist and gets me inside. He takes the keys out of the door, puts them on a tray, and turns to go.

"Are you all right from here, Sean?" he asks.

I grab his forearm. No. Not that easily.

"Sean...?" His eyes narrow at me. "You're drunk, and you're going to regret this in the morning."

"I'm not half so drunk as I look," I tell him, "and what I'd regret is not having this, not getting it, when I want it so goddamned badly."

He freezes solid for a moment, and then turns to go again. And I yank him back. I'm as strong as he is, and I want him -- and he wants me -- a hell of a lot more than he wants to go.

" _Stay_ ," I growl at him.

He brings his free arm up to my shoulder and holds tight. "Stop it," he murmurs. "Before we end up doing something we can't take back."

"Is that what it is? You don't want to have me because you want something you can take back?" I actually laugh at him. "Can you take back the fact that we both know it's out there, that we want each other and we both know it? Can you take back the way my hands have been on you tonight? The way yours have been on me?"

His eyes close, and I hold my breath, hoping for something. Anything. Something that says I'm not alone here.

When he turns back to the door, I don't stop him. But it fucking hurts, offering so much and having to hear it's worth next to nothing, and--

\--he's not leaving.

He's shutting the door. Locking it. And turning back to me.

Thank fucking Christ. Viggo...

"All right," he murmurs. "Come on."

And he idles off down the hall, to my bedroom. I have to close my eyes and remind myself to _breathe_ ; following behind him like this -- Jesus.

He stops just inside the door, as if he can't make up his mind what to do or how to do it. And I don't want him to turn on his heel and run, so I'm willing to start it. I put my hands to the bottom of his shirt and begin tugging it up and over his head, and he lets me do it.

And God, now his back's to me and I can touch his skin. I can put my lips to his shoulders and lick and kiss and bite, until he shivers and shudders with it, until he shakes. So I start there, wanting to draw reaction out of him, wanting to hear the emotion in his breath.

I hear arousal; I hear desire. I don't know that I hear desperation, which is what I'm really after -- but I hear the glimmerings of feeling. It's something.

I walk around him and take a seat on the foot of my bed so I can get my shoes off, my socks, and then he kneels down in front of me to get my shirt off. I let him undress me, let him get my shirt over my head, let him get my pants off, my shorts. I... Christ, and now I'm naked here before him, and his eyes are so dark, and I want it so badly I can't breathe.

I reach out and undo the first button on his jeans, and he grabs my wrist. I jerk back, and he follows, climbing on top of me, pushing me to my back on the bed.

 _Oh, God._ Oh, _God_ , yes, this is what I've wanted.

He leans down, his mouth a breath away from mine, and he doesn't take the first kiss. I won't take it, either, though it's killing me to be so near and yet not have him. I'm waiting for him to say.

"Sean..."

" _Please_ , Viggo."

"Just take it," he murmurs. I can feel the brush of his lips against mine, the barest hint of it. "Just kiss me, if it's what you want."

"I want..." I draw my hands up above my head, arch my neck, my back, as I'm lying here underneath him. He draws away, kneels up so he can look at me. My legs are parted, bent at the knees; he's lying between them, and I want him there so badly.

And it's as if it hurts him to look at me. To look at the way I'm lying here on my back, with my arms up over my head as if something's holding them down. To see the arch of my neck as if I'm baring my throat for him.

"Viggo, please," I whisper. "Please. I want you."

"Sean--" His voice shakes. "No."

 _No?!_

"No," he says, for a second time, and he climbs up off the bed. Climbs off _me_ , and leaves me lying here, legs spread, cock hard, pinned to the bed out of want for him.

"Are you mad?" I ask, sitting up, angry.

"I can't do it," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

"Get the hell back in bed, Viggo."

He pauses, looks at me with some amusement. "That's not the sort of thing I'd expect to come out of your mouth after an offer like that."

"The offer got turned down flat," I growl. "I'm making you a new one."

"Sean, for fuck's sake--" He sounds exasperated, and angry, and hurt. "I want to give you what you want. Do you understand that? I want it more than anything in this goddamned universe, but I can't--"

"Why not? Get back in bed and tell me why in hell you can't have me the way we both want."

"Because--" He shakes his head, and takes his shirt off my floor. "I can't," he finishes, and it's not good enough, but it's all I get. He turns on his heel, and he leaves.


	23. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, _finally_.

It's been three days since I tried to convince him to take me. And here we are, camped out under the stars, because Aragorn would do it.

I wonder if Aragorn would take his Steward, if his Steward offered. Wonder what Viggo would do if we had enough privacy for me to crawl to him on hands and knees and beg for his attention.

But sooner or later he'll have to get up, have to leave the company to take a piss, and I've decided I'm going to follow him then, and trap him, and see what happens.

Just have to stay awake.

* * *

His eyes have been burning holes in me since the night I left him in his bed. Naked, sprawled out, _mine_ if I'd wanted.

Oh, God, and it wasn't about wanting. I had want, and plenty of that.

Still have it, and I get to my feet once Sean falls asleep so I can get myself some privacy. Beating off behind a tree in the dark of night is probably one of the more desperate acts I've been driven to since all this started, but what's one more act of desperation?

* * *

"Sean? Wake up!"

"Eh?!" Is it morning already? Fuck, what time is it?

Where's Viggo?

I turn to peer at my human alarm clock -- Orlando -- who gestures at the trees. "Come on. He just left. Go get him."

I frown. I'd been under the impression Orlando and Viggo were -- but then why would he...?

Orlando rolls his eyes at me; I can see it in the darkness. " _Go_ ," he hisses. "I'm like everyone else. I want to see you both happy before you end up taking swords to each other. _Go._ "

It doesn't take anything else; I crawl out of my sleeping bag and run.

* * *

The thrashing noise in the trees is all too obvious, but it's too late to stop now; I have to hope I'm not discovered. Oh God, oh God, oh...

 _Sean on his knees, sucking me off, with his hands bound behind his back, blindfolded, and Christ, want him so much, want--_

"-- _shit_ ," I yelp, because a hand closes around my wrist, and that is not something that normally happens when one is braced against a tree beating off...

* * *

"Let me," I whisper, "please, Viggo," and then I go to my knees, my hands trailing down his sides to rest on his hips.

* * *

"Christ, Sean," I whisper, because how can I say no to that?

* * *

He doesn't. He doesn't say no. Finally, fucking _finally_ , he takes me.

His hand goes to my chin, tilts my face up so he can look in my eyes. He holds his breath for a few moments, and then taps a finger lightly against my lips. I open my mouth wide for him--

\--and he thrusts his cock into my mouth, and I moan at finally, oh, fucking _finally_ getting to taste him. _Yes._

I clutch at his hips, and he presses forward and hisses at me, tearing my hands from his body. He growls at me. I lace my fingers behind my back, spread my knees a little wider for balance. And he pounds into me, thrusts his cock into my mouth and pounds hard against the back of my throat.

 _Yes, yes, oh God, please..._

He cups the back of my head in his hand, and then he puts one hand over my eyes and keeps fucking my mouth, eyes blinded--

\--I keep my eyes closed when he pulls his hand away to grip my head in his hands. He keeps going, keeps pounding, oh _fuck_ and I don't know how I've lasted without this. Please. _Please._

He doesn't give me any warning when he's close. He simply gives one hard thrust, puts his teeth together, and exhales through them while he holds my head in place, come spurting against the back of my throat. I moan all around his cock; too much, and I can't imagine wanting anything more than this.

Christ, he's good. And I want him so badly. I wanted _this_ so badly.

He pulls away, or begins to, but then he ends up thrusting back into my mouth, as if he can't quite help himself. "Beautiful," he murmurs.

I let my eyes blink open to look up at him. He traces the curve of my cheek with his hand.

"Bastard," he murmurs.

I pull away. "Don't tell me you didn't want it," I growl at him.

"I wanted it," he says, smiling a little. "You're a bastard all the same."

I climb to my feet and plant my lips on his, sharing the taste of him with him, thrusting my tongue into his mouth. He groans, and his hands clutch at my arms. And then he turns me, pushing my back into the tree, drawing his hands down my arms to grab my wrists, pulling them over my head to press them into the tree.

"Yes, _please_ ," I whisper.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he murmurs; he brushes his cheek against mine.

"Of course I do," I laugh, very quietly. "I'm asking you to trust me."


	24. Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo and Sean are gloriously, deliriously compatible. Sean's willing to ask for the things that scare Viggo the most, and he's patient enough to wait for Viggo to realize that he's wanted to say yes all along.

I haven't been this nervous since the first time I topped someone on my own. The first time I realized it was all up to me not to fuck things up, and if I couldn't manage it, I'd spend the rest of my life hating myself.

I have something else going for me now. I know Sean's here with me. It's not all up to me; I'm not on my own. We're in this together.

"Are you comfortable?" I murmur over his shoulder; I cinch the last of the roller buckles on the armbinders and get his arms locked in position.

He shudders, lightly, and then nods. "Yes -- very comfortable, thank you." His voice is soft, and I can hear him wanting to say more than he lets out.

I draw a hand up his bare chest, my own chest bare as well and pressed up against his leather-clad arms. I feel the play of muscles under my hand as my fingers glide up to rest against his throat. "Tell me," I murmur. "What's on your mind, Sean?"

"Mind?" he asks, almost laughing. "Have I still got one, then?"

I laugh against his ear, and then lick the shell of it and bite down hard on his earlobe. He hisses, squirms under my hand, against my chest.

Oh, dear Christ, I'd forgotten how beautiful it is to draw reactions out of a submissive like this.

My grip tightens, then relaxes; I slide my hand back down the center of his chest and tangle it in the curls above his cock. "Tell me," I murmur again. "What didn't you say?"

He lets out a short breath, and then admits: " _Master._ I wanted to call you _Master_."

My eyes close. "And you stopped yourself."

"I haven't earned it yet."

My hand goes down lower, and I wrap my fingers around his cock. _I'm_ the one who hasn't earned it yet. "You don't have to call me anything other than 'Viggo'," I tell him.

He shifts in the armbinders; his legs part wider for me. "Oh, Christ, that's good," he whispers; my hand's not even moving, just holding loosely, and yet I know exactly what he means. I can feel the blush rising up in his face, and I plant my free hand on his chest so I can feel the blood under his skin there as well. "Viggo. Please..."

I haven't heard my name said like that in a long time. His lips caress the syllables until I can hear the _Master_ underneath them, and if I have to hear him call me _Viggo_ that way in front of everyone... dear Christ, I won't be able to survive a day without beating off until my skin is raw.

But it's what I told him. Stick to what you said, and let him call you that, if that's what he wants.

"Tell me why I should let you come," I murmur. I give him another sharp bite on the earlobe.

"To please you," he murmurs. "To show you how much your touch affects me."

"Mm. Maybe." I give him a long stroke, hard enough to be satisfying. He shakes under me, and I feel the way his cock leaps.

Christ, he's close already, just from kneeling for me, naked, just from being in armbinders for me, just from my hand on his cock.

"Tell me how that feels," I whisper. I keep the strokes going, evenly, and listen to him pant and moan, trying to gain his voice so he can follow my order.

"It feels -- so good," Sean manages. "Like -- oh God -- like putting myself in your hands for trust. Like trusting you."

My face nestles into the curve between his neck and his shoulder, and I breathe quietly while I keep stroking him. "Go on," I whisper.

" _Viggo_ ," he moans, and oh Christ, that's it; I'm going to get hard hearing my name on his lips for the rest of my days.

"More," I whisper, greedy now, wanting as much as he'll give me.

"Feels like -- coming -- home," he whispers. "Like I belong here. In your -- _hands_ \-- please, please, Viggo, may I come for you?"

"If I say no?" I murmur.

He shudders, lets out two heavy groans. "I can -- wait," he moans for me.

"How long can you wait?" I tighten my grip, and he hisses in a breath. "If I do that? What if I do this?" And I sink my teeth into his shoulder.

"GodGod _God_ ," he gasps, head going back, resting on my shoulder now. I can hear how wide his mouth is open from the gasping of his breath. "Please, Viggo, please, Sir, let me come for you, oh God, please..."

"Yes, Sean," I whisper, "come for me. Now."

He does, and I feel the streaks of his come falling over my fingers; I feel the answering jerking of his body against me. I hear his moans, low and beautiful, as my strokes take the come from his body, and oh God, I am not going to be able to live without this.

I kiss his shoulder. "Sean," I murmur.

"Viggo, please." He's still shuddering. I think his eyes must be closed; mine are. "Please keep me."

"Oh, God, Sean." I nod against him. "Yes. _Yes,_ I'll keep you."


	25. Answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not every boy who starts his collaring by telling his Master to take him.

It doesn't hurt seeing Christian. He's here with Jon, and Jon is collared, leashed, wearing beautiful silver leather pants. His nipples have been pierced, silver rings in both, and Christian guides him into the room and then lets Jon curl up at his feet.

They look beautiful together. Happy together. Jon is looking at Christian as if my once-boy could hang the moon, if he liked, and Christian is just smiling in a way I could never have managed from him.

 _My_ boy is purring, with his head on my knee as I card fingers through his hair. I haven't collared him yet; that's what this whole evening is for.

We have friends here, Christian and I; we have people who knew us when we were together, and who know why we aren't now. We have people here to support us. And we have enough friends and lovers here to make a celebration like this meaningful. If a bit nervewracking.

I'm proud of my new boy. God. I've never been so proud of one before; Sean is utterly fucking perfect, dedicated, hasn't given me trouble -- apart from almost forcing me to take him on. But I'm nervous all the same. There's no going back from this; if we go through with it, it's done.

I pull him aside, away from other masters and boys, and draw him into my arms, his back to my front, my lips at his ear.

"Be certain," I murmur.

"Your boy is quite certain, Master," Sean replies. "May your boy ask how his Master is feeling?"

"You may," I tell him; my arms around his waist tighten.

"Master..." Sean says. "Are _you_ certain? You seem tense." Sean takes a breath and continues. "You've seemed tense since you saw Christian and his boy."

Sean knows Christian was mine once; he's smart enough to have figured out what happened to end that. And yes, my tension started when Christian and his boy arrived. Sometimes I damn Sean for being so observant; we'd never have gotten to this point if he weren't. And then... we'd never have gotten to this point if he weren't, so I'm grateful for it, as well.

I sigh into the back of his neck. "I'm sorry," I tell him. "You're right. I'm tense. It's been a while since I've had a boy. Longer still since I've had one I wanted to collar in a public ceremony. I'm proud of you, Sean. I want this."

"Your boy asks permission to face you, Master," he says softly.

"Mm."

I let him have the necessary freedom to turn, and he does, looking up into my eyes. "Your boy wonders if you trust him," he whispers.

"I trust you." I don't trust _time_. A few short years with Christian and he was gone from me. I don't want to see that happen with Sean; _Christ_ , but I don't want to see that happen with him.

"Your boy begs you to listen to him." Sean cups his hands around my neck; forward, damn him, more forward than I'd like to see from him here. But God, his hands feel good, and I can already feel his certainty and confidence soothing me. "You are not going to lose your boy this time."

"I never thought I would," I tell him, but I don't think he believes me, and I don't think he should.

"Your boy begs you to answer a question for him, Master. Do you think your boy would be here if he weren't certain he wanted this for the rest of his days?"

"I think certainty is fluid," I murmur, "but I want to believe you."

Sean lets out a frustrated noise. "Certainty is only fluid if you aren't old enough to know who you _are_. Master, your boy is -- _I'm_ past forty, Viggo. If I had any interest in domination, if I wanted something other than kneeling at your feet, don't you think I would know it by now?"

"I think--"

" _Don't_ think," he whispers, fiercely. He takes my hand and puts my palm over his heart. " _Feel._ Trust me to know myself. I love you. I want this. This way. I'm not afraid of saying so, not afraid of proving it to you."

I wrap my arm around his waist, again, and pull him close to me. "I love you," I murmur in return. "I trust you."

"Then _take_ me," he whispers. "Please, Master."

I lean close to him. "It's not every boy who starts his collaring by telling his Master to take him," I murmur. Sean pulls back, and I can see him starting to flush red. I smile, and cup the back of his neck in my hand. "You'll have a good deal to make up for when this is all over."

He clings to my arms, and smiles in relief. I smile back at him, feeling much the same. "Your boy will be grateful for his Master's punishment," he whispers.

" _Afterwards_ ," I tell him.

"Yes, Master."

"I love you, Sean."

I will never tire of his grin.

"Your boy loves you, Master."


	26. Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo tends to come home a little maddened by Helm's Deep. Sean will always be there to serve.

Most mornings Sean goes to the set to pick Viggo up after filming. Tonight Viggo said he was going to drive on his own, and that he wanted Sean awake and waiting for him when he got back.

Sean altered his sleep schedule when Helm's Deep got started so he'd be on the same timing as Viggo. It seemed only right, and Viggo didn't even notice. He's never said anything about it. It's what a good boy does for his Master; not something that even needed to be asked for.

These nights leave Viggo exhausted. Most of the time Sean drives him home, massages his aching muscles, and puts him to bed. Sometimes Viggo wants his boy's mouth before he goes to sleep, and that suits Sean just fine.

Tonight Sean looks at the clock and knows Viggo's going to be home any moment. He strips off and goes to the bedroom, then takes a medium-sized vivid blue plug, lubes it, and slides it into his arse. He puts himself on forearms and knees in the center of the bed, head down between his arms, and waits.

The door slams open, and in another form of headspace it might startle Sean. Here, though, now, it makes Sean's cock harder but doesn't make him move.

"Boy?" There's a hint of madness in Viggo's voice, as there so often is these days. That, too, makes Sean's pulse and breath quicken.

"Yes, Master, in the bedroom," Sean calls out.

There are soft thumping noises along with Viggo's footsteps -- wet clothes hitting the floor. Sean keeps his head lowered, not without effort, as Viggo storms into the bedroom.

He feels Viggo making a rough fist in his hair and gasps sharply, eyes stinging. Viggo pulls his head up, and Sean takes in the look of his master: wild-eyed, hair mussed, dripping wet, naked, cock hard and nearly purple with unfulfilled arousal.

"Please," Sean whispers.

" _Serve me_ ," Viggo growls, and he yanks Sean forward, dragging Sean's mouth to his cock.

Sean's mouth opens wide, and he sucks Viggo in eagerly, starved for it, wanting it so much the answering throb in his own cock is almost painful. He chokes as Viggo thrusts in deep, and struggles backward so he can come forward again and take Viggo all the way down his throat.

He gets a ragged cry and a sharp thrust from Viggo as his reward, and a sharp tug in his hair as Viggo moves forward and back in selfish, furious thrusts. "My boy," he growls, " _mine_..."

He pulls back all at once and comes back on the bed, scratching fingernails down Sean's back. " _Mine_ ," he snarls again. He kneels behind San and works the plug out. "Now _beg_ ," he growls out. "Beg me to hurt you."

"Please, Master, take me, hurt me with it," Sean gasps.

"More," Viggo breathes. His thumbs slide into Sean's cleft and hold him open.

"Please -- Master -- please hurt me, please take me -- love you, please, this slave offers you his body, his heart, his soul, all yours to hurt and break--"

"--and honor," Viggo growls.

"--and -- honor -- Master, please, please fuck me--"

Viggo pushes in, grunting and snarling as he gains one rough inch at a time. Sean opens his mouth and lets the whimpers out -- Viggo likes to hear his noises, so the noises he'll have -- and lets fly a few more groaned please. "Harder -- oh -- please -- Master, yes," Sean chokes out. Even prepped and plugged, it burns, and he knows it's because Viggo's giving it to him this way on purpose. Because Viggo _wants_ it to hurt.

Once he's in, both Viggo's hands go to Sean's hair, and he tugs hard while he begins thrusting in deep. "Tell me," he growls, "who you are," and gives another set of rough punishing strokes.

"Your -- slave -- your boy -- _Sean_ , Master," Sean half-screams.

" _My_ Sean," Viggo snarls back, "always mine, like this, always mine," and now the thrusts are threatening to take Sean off the bed and Viggo doesn't care.

"Yes, please, Master, always yours," Sean begs, "Master, please, close--"

Viggo wraps a hand around Sean's cock. "Come," he growls, "give me that, give it to me, boy, _now_ ," and he's making those sharp sounds in the back of his throat that say he's abandoned all reason, all thought, and it's only him and Sean and the growling, desperate press of their bodies, working together to get where they both need to go.

Sean arches and comes, screaming -- he's not sure what the words are, only the feelings, the love he has for his Master, the need and urgency Viggo creates in him, the gratitude he feels for being taken and claimed this way. When breath comes back to him and he can still feel Viggo fucking him hard -- and oh God, that hurts so much - he manages one more soft whisper. "Love you so much, Master."

"I love you, too, boy," Viggo growls, and with a series of short, sharp strokes that make Sean scream -- a lesser-trained slave might be fighting to pull away -- Viggo shouts out his own pleasure and comes, finally planting a hand between Sean's shoulderblades and making him collapse into the mattress. Viggo gasps for air and collapses on top of Sean, letting out a soft moan as he thrusts lazily inside Sean, taking a few last slow, lazy glides inside him as the maddening pleasure begins to wear down.

"Good boy," Viggo whispers, much later, when he can speak again.

The praise makes Sean flush all over, and he sighs with contentment. "Thank you," he whispers.

"C'mon," Viggo murmurs, "let's go to sleep. 'M tired."

"Of course," Sean breathes. "Does my Master require anything else?"

"Yeah." Viggo sinks his teeth into the back of Sean's neck. "You. For the rest of your life."

Sean groans happily at the pain and stays boneless under Viggo's weight. "Yours, Master, for the rest of our lives."


End file.
